


and i couldn’t whisper when you needed it shouted

by Lvslie



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: (updated with minor fixes), .........a lot of repression, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst with a Happy Ending, Eloping (Kind of), Falling In Love, Getting Together, M/M, Mutual Pining, Period-Typical Homophobia, References of past trauma, Repression, Romance, Venice, but also....Love, early 20th century, let me reiterate: Happy ENDING
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-13
Updated: 2019-01-22
Packaged: 2019-07-28 14:53:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16243949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lvslie/pseuds/Lvslie
Summary: He still smells like Newt; bears traces of his recent nearness. Clothes sleep-wrinkled from the proximity, from the way Newt’s ankle has during the night hooked around the calf of Hermann’s good leg and dragged his whole body seamlessly closer. Cheek half-flushed from the face unconsciously nuzzled his into the side of Hermann’s neck—evidence of his presence, fast asleep, as Hermann lay still and fretful for hours an end, staring at the ceiling and feeling sick with wanting.[An early 20th century AU inspired loosely byMauriceandAge of Innocence.]





	1. Newton

**Author's Note:**

> THIS ESCALATED. VERY MUCH. I CANNOT EVEN STRESS HOW MUCH.
> 
> Anyway, as wistful and heart-wrenching as the premise of this may strike you, I hope I've proven by now that you can hold me to the soft ending rule. It's gonna be. SOFT. 
> 
> Writing and editing this involved doing an ... insane amount of research into tiny odd matters ranging from railway, through criminal law to dress codes and it blends historical (in)accuracy with odd references to a big extent.
> 
> I'm BEYOND EXCITED to share this one. I just. Ah, GOD, I hope you'll enjoy it. There's realy a lot of my heart in it.
> 
> Possibly the most so far. 
> 
> So, to quote Yeats, whom I love quite a bit, _tread softly because you tread on my dreams._

_**I meant that you should discover me so by faint indirections,  (...)** _

The lab is dim-lit in the fallow glow of wax-dripping candles scattered haphazardly around it. The air, heavy, spiked with the all-too-familiar pungent scent of hydrochloric acid and rendered opaque by the tobacco fumes, lulls Newt even further into drowsy tiredness. His stained, needle-bruised hands tremble and he nearly drops the carafe—a splotch of thick amber trailing down the side, staining his ruined shirt and the wood. 

‘Now, be _careful_ , Newton’ comes a voice, low and weary as well, weakly reproachful. Raising the two glasses in his near-unstable hands, Newt turns waveringly, blinking to chase away the stymieing exhaustion and peer through the fumes. 

Hermann is reclined in a chair, vacant-eyed and tussled, the nearest candle casting a muted warmth onto his angular features. His ill- _fitting_ vest is ill- _buttoned_ , his worn tobacco-smelling frock stained with chalk dust. Between the long fingers of his pale right hand, rested atop the handle of his cane, he holds a lit cigarette. The desk behind him is scattered with papers covered in slanted writing, with miscellaneous contraptions and test tubes, and one of Newt’s retorts very nearly pokes into his pronounced cheekbone.

There’s something disturbingly _homely_ about the whole picture, Newt thinks before he pushes himself into motion and stumbles towards the chair, thrusting one of the glasses into Hermann’s idle hand. 

It brushes past Newt’s: frigidly cold. He registers the knowledge as something of a triumph: it was Newt’s lingering suspicion that his old friend and colleague’s—or, his  _arch-nemesis_ , that is—cardiovascular system’s functioning left a lot to be desired. 

‘Thank you,’ Hermann meanwhile says, his face allowing something it never does while sober: a brief softening of the sharpness of feature; the corners of his dark earnest eyes crinkling;the corners of his odd mouth stretching upwards. Newt blinks. 

There is something—there’s just _something_ about Hermann, there has _always_ been, that does not make _sense_.

Newt does not know who tailors Hermann’s suits—but the man is clearly doing a botched job: everything he wears seems vaguely oversized, vaguely shapeless, somehow accentuating the hunch of his posture and uneven gait even further, while effectively concealing all other features. 

Admittedly, _few_ would agree with Newt on the _existence_ of many features beyond those surface ones in the notorious aloof bastard that Doctor H. Gottlieb maintains to be, but then again, not many _get_ to see Doctor Gottlieb—get to see _Hermann—_ in fervour of his work, proverbially elbows-deep in physical equations: hair dangling in his eyes as his pale face lights up in euphoria, lean smooth forearms exposed under the hitched up shirtsleeves, lithe and slender in less than the seventy three goddamned layers he usually wears—

‘—ewton? Wherever have you wandered?’ Hermann’s voice comes in slurred and sobering, interrupting the wayward train of thought.  

Newt inhales sharply. 

‘What?’ he says incongruously, startled. He realises that the whiskey glass in his hand is tilting precariously downwards and finds himself rapidly _mortified_ at the thought of betraying to the prim and proper Hermann just how much of unprofessional unscholarly appreciation he harbours for the intricacies of his bone structure—

This does not usually happen to this extent. Newt may _wonder_ , yes, Newt may examine the distant possibilities with no chances of fruition—but he hardly ever zones out and—and, _good Lord_ , how much have they drunk already? Couldn’t have been much at all, it is most likely the exhaustion which makes everything so much quicker to become a trap. They have been working on radiation nonstop for sheer long _weeks_ now, it is only _natural_ that eerie thoughts begin to cloud—

‘You’ve—’ Hermann gestures vaguely, drawing a trembling contrail of smoke in the air between them, ‘disappeared. Into your head. While I was _talking_ to you.’

Hermann’s voice has that rare note of nearly childish stubborn accusation to it now, something stubborn and earnest: his bleary eyes are fixed straight upon Newt, precise even in inebriation. 

There’s something that doesn’t make sense in this, too, the unmistakable _fondness_ in Newt’s chest, sparked by something as mundane as this. _But then again, few things in their whole relationship have ever made sense in the first place_ , he thinks miserably, rubbing at his eye and shifting in the chair.

‘You must excuse me,’ he slurs, half-congruously. ‘I’ve grown quite _weary_.’

There’s a moment of thick, lulling silence.

‘You have,’ Hermann then says quite suddenly, leaning forward and setting his glass haphazardly aside, among the piled up clutter of Newton’s work station. There’s focus in his face once again, ‘something on your face. A _smudge_ —’

And just then, before Newt can as much as formulate another coherent thought, everything comes tumbling down.

Hermann’s hands—awkward, fluttery, clumsy with humans where they would be precise and meticulous with his appliances—reach out, the thumb of one stroking across Newt’s cheek to wipe away the offending smudge. The other plucks at Newt’s unbuttoned waistcoat, at his shirt—as though seeking leverage to prevent Hermann from losing balance—then skims briefly over the skin of Newt’s exposed forearm, leaves tingling trails of an odd burning sensation, sparking up something in the nerve endings. Newt inhales. Dizzily, he leans forward.

And suddenly there’s a change in the intention, seamless and uprooting, when Hermann’s helping hand travels down to the side of Newton’s jaw and settles there. 

He is looking different now, looking _softened:_  eyelids heavy and pale face flushed, this oddly down-curving mouth parted, invitingly.

And _yes_ , there’s a part of Newton, a shockingly loud one, that keens for him to leanfurther forward and meet Hermann halfway; an eager, dazed part that’s making everything seem suddenly _easy_ , new and tempting and—

But there’s also the other one, confused and startled, the one that’s vaguely aware of Newt’s heart puncturing a hole in his chest with its frantic hammering, the one that has question marks scattered all over his entire perception because this is _precisely_ what he’s been dreading of himself since the beginning and there’s surely a hunch here, surely a way to misinterpret and damage—  

He leans backwards on instinct, the scales of confusion barely just tipping—timing tragically with Hermann’s eyes widening (suddenly perceptive, suddenly, _oh_ , not so _sweet_ ), with a sharp intake of breath (they’re still _close_ , _it’s still to be salvaged_ , the curious part of Newt vaguely implores), with an odd tension erupting in between them, in place of the earlier lulling pull.

‘What are you—’ Newt’s numb stupid lips mumble out, dissonant and barely even vocal, and Hermann jerks back—so abruptly that Newt does lose _his_ balance.  

There’s a moment where gravity fails him, perspective shifting in a blur, and Newt thinks, dumbly, _we’re falling, the Earth’s falling._ He vaguely registers an echoing noise to his left.

Then the back of his chair hits the floor and the pain startles a strangled groan out of him. 

‘What the bloody _hell_ is going on in here,’ there comes an unfamiliar voice. 

Dizzy, near-insensate, sprawled on his back with his knees up in the air and mouth still parted, he strains to catch a look at Hermann’s newly remote face—futilely.

‘What—’ Newt croaks, blinking, and doesn’t finish. Somebody, somebody who isn’t Hermann, who has spoken earlier, has cleared his throat.

The elements of the puzzle click into place: the laboratory’s heavy oak door is flung open. A young man in a military attire stands in the doorway.

‘You two get a _grip_ ,’ he snarls, in a voice that still strikes Newton as jarring, drastically out of place, ‘and report to the LOCCENT immediately.’

Newt fumbles on the floor, gathering himself into a crouch—among the swaying dim light, he singles out the looming, sturdy figure of young Hansen. 

The boy is not doing much except _looking_ , scrutinising the room with wary eyes, conviction staining his expression. Something like clarity tugs at Newt’s mind, something terrible and linked to the flash of cold despair in Hermann’s eyes and yet—no, no, he’s _too_ far gone, too _hazy_ to—

Still on the floor, still compromised, Newt mumbles, ‘Too much t’drink.’

‘Yes,’ Hermann says. Newt’s body gives a twitch at the familiar sound of his voice—strikingly clear, hollow, devoid of any tone, ‘I believe that might just be the case.’

Hermann is sitting straight in his chair, one hand gripping his left knee, the other clutching at the handle of his cane. He’s staring straight ahead, almost at Chuck but not quite, stiff like a photograph, _captured_.

Something in Newt’s stomach twists. 

‘If you say so,’ Chuck says, with a vague indescribable sneer. 

 

* * *

**_And I when I meet you mean to discover you by the like in you._ **

 

Much to Newton’s dismay, Hermann does not appear in the laboratory the following morning.

He has spent the night writhing in fitful bouts of shallow sleep, the entirety of them evolving around the man, delving in excruciating detail into the possible alternating outcomes of their missed moment of closeness. He wakes up with the dullthrobbing headache that alcohol overdose induces, damp from perspiration, a mixture of guilt and yearning making him virtually unable to function until he washes himself in cold water and hurriedly leaves his quarters. 

After three hours of tense, nerve-wrecking anticipation which has Newton in a state nearing paranoia—agitatedly consulting his fob watch every five minutes, unable to focus on any of the contents of his test tubes—he comes to the conclusion that continuing to passively suffer in waiting for the off-chance that Hermann decides to grace the laboratory with his presence after all—simply will not _do_. 

Composing himself somewhat and attempting to assume a less obviously panicked demeanour, he slinks out of the dim of their underground niche to seek out information. 

The LOCCENT, built in place of an abandoned railway station, is sunk in the mellow September light of a crisp English morning, which floods through the see-through exoskeleton of the ceiling. Somewhat stupefied with the assaulting brightness, Newton manoeuvres in an ungainly manner towards one of the desks at the forefront. 

A well-groomed dark-haired man in a burgundy sack suit cut to the newest fashions is currently receiving a telegraph. Newt hovers to the left of his desk, waiting until the man ceases transcribing and absentmindedly reaches for the ornate snuffbox in his pocket before he speaks out.

‘Tendo,’ he whispers insistently, casting a surreptitious glance around. The man looks up distractedly, but brightens in recognition near-instantly. ‘Have you seen Doctor Gottlieb today?’

‘No,’ Tendo whispers back, eyes widening, motioning for a colleague to replace him even as his eyes never leave Newton’s face. ‘Are you all right, Geiszler?’

Newt frowns, thrown off balance. ‘All right? Yes, I am quite all—I don’t know what you’re—listen, can we _talk_ for a moment? Talk somewhere secluded, that is. There has been—’

‘No need to explain, my friend. News travel _fast_ ,’ Tendo says at once, in a low but firm voice, and rises from his work station. He flashes everyone a broad apologetic smile before nimbly taking Newton by the elbow and leading him outside.

They don’t speak another word until Tendo has dragged Newton out into the backyard, and leaned against the sturdy brick wall, resuming to fish for the snuffbox in the pocket of his jacket and squinting at the scientist. 

It’s a brisk sunlit morning, bright light slanting off the red brick of the Shatterdome and making Newt feel vaguely sick and dizzy. Nevertheless, he folds his arms and stares back at Tendo, attempting to exude his usual air of blatant defiance.

‘What exactly had you meant by _news travel fast_ , Choi?’ he demands. ‘What _news_?’

Tendo gives up on the snuffbox and retrieves a cigarette instead. He patiently waits for Newton to light it for him before replying. Finally he mutters, in lieu of a straightforward answer, ‘The hell has gone down there yesterday, huh?’

‘Gone down?’ Newt repeats, confused. ‘What … what is this coming from? Nothing has _gone down_ , I’ve just … I’ve had a smidge of a misunderstanding with Doctor Gottlieb.’

Tendo takes a drag of his cigarette and sniffs pointedly. ‘The fact that you’re coming to me all jittery and call whatever it was _a smidge of misunderstanding_ instead of yelling crude obscenities about the man is evidence in and of itself, Newton.’

Newt bristles, newly agitated. He squirms in his spot. 

‘Nothing _happened_ per se _,_ ’ he repeats, insistent. ‘I— _we_ have had a bit too—all right, _much_ too much whiskey, and it is possible that we were not handling it as … _well_ as usually. We —oh, damn it, we got absolutely _cockeyed_. Probably because we’ve been working so hard and—well, call it a well-deserved celebration or what will you. It happened.’

‘I’d call it gluttony,’ Tendo says primly, and Newt disregards him.

‘And then we,’ he trails off, acutely sheepish all of the sudden. ‘And then _Hermann_ —I don’t know, I—this will sound simply _ludicrous_ , but. There was a touch of a balance issue and I… I kind of thought he ... I thought he was going to _kiss_ me or—and, well, I didn’t exactly handle that very well, either.’

Newt cringes at his own wording, but is swiftly distracted by Tendo heaving a sigh. The earlier smirk is gone from his face, leaving a pinched earnest expression in its wake. 

‘I feared as much,’ he says quietly, averting his eyes from Newton’s face. ‘This is—this is _worrying_ , Newton.’

‘Now, Choi,’ Newt scoffs, feeling peculiarly defensive, ‘that’s gibberish. You did _not_. It’s not like either of us goes around living the life of the goddamned _décadence_ , this isn’t exactly _precedented_ —and it’s not like anyone’s going around reporting drunk-off-their-faces scientists for almost stealing a kiss.’

Tendo sighs again and rubs his forehead. ‘Newt, you ... I’m afraid you are mistaken. It’s not quite as simple a matter. Typically, yes, you would be right—no one _would_ report anything if it were me or you in question. The benefit of the doubt, shall we say. In this case, however—ah, no. Not quite so simple. God damn it. This is _bad_.’

Newt frowns, taking a cautious step backwards. ‘What—what the _hell_ are you talking about, man? In this case? In what _case?_ There’s no _case_ to speak of—’  

‘Isn’t there?’ 

Newt opens his mouth and instantly closes it, pinned down by Tendo’s unusually sinister expression. Something like unease is creeping closer and closer to his heart, tightening. 

Eventually, he manages to say, a touch unevenly, ‘Stop hedging around it and just _say_ it.’

‘Very well, then. Let’s just say there’s been—’ Tendo considers, wets his lips. He looks oddly conflicted, and Newt doesn’t _understand_ it, doesn’t understand the blooming anxiety in his stomach. ‘I … I do not know how much of it he’s disclosed to you—I take it you and Hermann have been corresponding before you met here?’ 

‘Yeah, we—’ Newt frowns. ‘Wait, what, disclosed _what_ to me? Jesus Christ, man.’

Tendo draws a sharp breath and quickly snuffs out his cigarette, casting a wary glance around. The alley is deserted, but the gesture prompts a cold chill to travel down Newton’s spine nevertheless. 

‘There exists a certain ... precedent in Doctor Gottlieb’s past, to this sort of situation,’ Tendo begins finally, furtively. ‘Certain, let’s say, proclivities, which have not been examined as carefully as they ought have—which were hushed, in short, so that he could work for the PPDC. All due to his exceptional abilities, of course. Times were desperate. And—well. Good Lord.’ The pretence of stiff formality drops from Tendo’s voice, giving in to a sort of defeated weariness. ‘It hardly as if Hermann is going around doing anything provocative or doing anyone any _harm_ , is it? Not many people here would agree there’s a need for being quite so strict at all—but _alas_ , as it is, the slightest indiscretion may trigger a—’ 

‘A what, a _scandal_?’ Newt blurts out, in spite of himself, with a vaguely hysterical laugh. He feels numb. ‘Oh … oh, come _on_ , Choi, don’t act like a fool, it was nothing like—’

Tendo grimaces. ‘Newton, _you_ are the one being obtuse. Sometimes a rumour is worse than getting caught red handed. And correct me if I’m wrong, but wasn’t there a third party involved?’  

Newt blinks, feeling entirely too dumbfounded to properly respond for a while. He slowly shakes his head.

Finally, ‘Young Hansen walked in on us—’ he cuts off, rapidly. ‘By which I mean, _Christ_ , nothing to _walk in on_ had happened there, he walked in on me tumbling down to the ground with my chair because I’m a dimwit with just about zero sensorimotor skills. That is _all_.’

There’s a momentary silence.

‘Alas, I would not be surprised,’ Tendo says at length, grimly, ‘if that was not, indeed, the version of events he has reported to the authorities.’ 

‘Reported to the—oh, come on,’ Newt repeats, but conviction is draining from his voice as he speaks. ‘He did _not_.’

‘Newt,’ Tendo says, and suddenly there’s _pity_ in his voice, and Newt has no more defiance to spare, cold dread seizing him in an instant. ‘Don’t pretend to be blind. There is no easy way of this kind of a situation, and Hermann’s case is not favourable; there’s _precedent_. And he’s—perhaps you did not see, but God, he is _clearly_ infatuated with you, there is no point—’  

‘Stop it,’ Newt snaps, harsher than he’d intended it, louder. ‘Just stop. This is ridiculous.’

Tendo doesn’t answer, and does not attempt to hold Newt back when he storms away, settling for merely watching him retreat with a pinched expression.  

 

* * *

**_I am to wait, I do not doubt I am to meet you again, (…)_ **

 

 

Two days later—two days of a frighteningly empty laboratory, of pointed sympathetic looks from Tendo and of frigid, escalating panic growing deep inside him—Newt finds himself huddled in a chair in the Marshal’s office.

‘First and foremost,’ Hansen is saying, speech muffled somewhat by his pipe, ‘we need to strive to diminish the casualties.’

The entirety of Newton’s nerve systems has transformed itself into dead tissue, so it seems, because he finds himself entirely devoid of any sense perception or responsiveness. 

With numb, non-compliant lips, he manages, ‘I’m afraid I don’t follow, Sir.’

Hansen looks up at him—piercing blue eyes, an angular face not unlike that of his son, and something in Newton’s stomach twists, violently. ‘You have, no doubt, been briefed about the situation prior to this meeting, as I have ordered—by officer Choi. Is that correct?’ 

A lingering, hollow silence. Then, ‘Yes, Sir,’ Newt says. 

The facts—as Tendo has said, mournfully—are as follows: out of the two awful options, the PPDC has managed to pursue the decisively less unbearable one. Instead of public denouncement, and hence, an effective end of any and all prospects for him, Doctor Gottlieb is to be formally reprimanded and dispatched forthwith to a remote branch of the organisation. The shadow of scandal will remain, of course, upon his work, but it is believed to be more beneficial both for him and the institution he was associated with.

Newt remembers being told this like through fog. He remembers Tendo saying, ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Who’s the goddamned snitch,’ Newt then remembers croaking, eyes transfixed on the floor,hands fisted upon his desk, ‘Is it fucking Hansen? Is it? Because I’m—I am going to break his face, so help me _God_ , I am going to—’

‘I doubt that would do either you or Doctor Gottlieb much good,’ Tendo has replied, soberly.

‘There is not much to be done, I’m afraid, about Gottlieb,’ Newt registers the Marshal’s falsely good-natured tone, in the present. ‘Seeing as the notification has reached the higher authorities, I have done … all that was in my power to make it as lenient on him as possible.’ 

Newton slowly raises his eyes to stare at him. _You could not have had a son_ , he doesn’t say.

‘All in all,’ the Marshal continues, unaware. ‘It is in Gottlieb’s best interest to disappear before the rumour spreads. This way, it is entirely possible for him to continue with his research—if, admittedly, on a decisively smaller scale.’

Newt says nothing. He registers the words, yes, but does not _process_ them—the frigid feeling of necrosis is expanding from his ribcage throughout the whole nerve system. By this point, he sees no point of resisting the paralysis whatsoever.  

The Marshal draws a meaningful breath, extricating the pipe from his mouth and peering at Newt shrewdly.

‘There’s the matter,’ he says gently, ‘of your … involvement.’

‘My involvement,’ Newt repeats, in a hollow voice. There’s a ringing in his ears.

‘While not outright stated, it is _implied_ , both through your co-habitation in the laboratory and Doctor Gottlieb’s ... inclination towards you, that you might have shared something … more than a professional relationship.’

‘There was nothing like that between us,’ Newt says blankly. Suddenly, violently, feeling returns: he feels like he’s going to cry. Or break something. Smash to _pieces_.

 ‘I am not saying there was,’ the Marshal replies with a wan smile, ‘and Doctor Gottlieb was blessedly sober enough—even in his compromised state—to have already testified that you are … ah, _innocent_. He proposed to issue a statement clearing your name from all association with his name, which, I must say, strikes me as the most favourable option indeed.’  

Newt’s brain short-circuits. 

A statement—sober enough to—

Cleared of all— _what—_

‘ _What_ ,’ he says, staring.

Apparently thinking Newton had misheard, the Marshal patiently rephrases the sentiment. 

‘No,’ Newt says, blinking rapidly, ‘I don’t understand. Why?’

The Marshal sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. ‘Alas, I believe you _must_ understand, Doctor Geiszler, the implication of being involved in a scandal both for yours and the PPDC’s scientific credibility.’

There falls a lingering moment of rapt silence. Newton feels as though he is perceiving time in a slowed dimension, halted in an unmoving spot on the continuum, frozen. 

By the time he finds his voice, the fog has cleared.

‘I think I’m going to—’ he says at length, weakly. ‘I think I’m going to _pass_.’

The Marshal stills. An entirely different kind of tension steals into the room and hangs in the air, stifling. 

‘Doctor Geiszler,’ Hansen begins, voice losing all trace of levity and hardening, ‘do you not understand—’

‘No, I—I do,’ Newt interrupts, loudly. ‘I do, I understand _perfectly_. Eternal disgrace. Exclusion from the scientific community. Failed loyalty. I—yes, I shall— _thank you_ for the kind offer, _Sir_ , but. I am going to pass on the … _issued statement_.’  

Hansen is staring at him across the desk, something approaching apoplexy seizing his features. For the first time in _days_ , Newton can feel his blood circulating; can feel his own heartbeat.  

‘Doctor— _Newton Geiszler,_ for God’s sake,’ the Marshal says, smacking the desk. Newt hardly moves at the reverberating noise. 

‘Loyalty to this institution aside, be a man of reason for once in your life and _think_ about your own bloody  _career_ —’

‘I … am thinking about it,’ Newt interrupts, once again, in a distant voice. He nods, rising from his seat, raising his eyes and fixing them on Hansen. 

‘I’m thinking that I would be having no career to speak of if it wasn’t for Hermann. So, I guess—I guess, _fuck that issued statement_ is what I am saying. With all due respect, Sir—I am sure there’s room for two scientists to be dispatched to a … remote location.’

The Marshal stares at him, hard.

Newt stares back.

 

* * *

 

Upon his hasty return to the laboratory, Newton finds a letter perched atop his desk. 

It is addressed in Hermann’s familiar slanting cursive, reminiscent of the early years of their acquaintanceship. Irrationally, Newton’s first erratic thought is a pang of regret that he’d missed an opportunity to intercept Hermann _earlier_ , to reassure him in a familiar surrounding that no _issued statements_ are needed. On second thought it becomes apparent to him that the letter was surely brought in by a third party, following Hermann’s departure.

After checking the time, Newt picks up the envelope at it and does not open it. Instead, he hides it in the inside pocket of his jacket and takes to collecting his possessions from where they lie scattered haphazardly across the laboratory. 

 

* * *

**_I am to see to it that I do not lose you._ **

 

_Gare de l’Est_ is swarming with people, vibrant with colours and noises. Stumbling over his own legs, Newt keeps apologising profusely to every innocent victim of collision with his abnormally heavy suitcase. 

The train, beautiful and submerged in billowing white steam, is already welcoming passengers on board: elegant women in Parisian _haute couture_ and men of the likes of Tendo Choi seem to be the predominant crowd for the Express—though Newton does _not_ ponder too extensively on the odds of his puzzling combination of a worn frock, hunting boots and knickerbockers standing out—and instead takes to the curious glances with a happy notion that an American continues to be a novelty among the Europeans.

His disinterest in the Parisian travelling demographic grows even more pronounced as he spots the target of his pursuit hovering uncertainly on the far-end of the platform, seeming just as misplaced—if not more—than himself.

Hermann somehow manages to look simultaneously more put together _and_ more miserable than he does usually: he is wearing his dress suit and his shoes are polished, but there’s even more of a strain to his tilting carriage, and he seems even thinner and more desolate. Something aching and urgent tugs at Newton’s heart as he pushes through the crowd, hardly paying the people surrounding him any attention.  

Everything seems to be coming alive as he walks, a newly rekindled sense of purpose nearly dizzying. Newt breathes in, smiling to himself—and everything, the whole entire train station, seems to take a breath with him. 

‘Hermann!’ he calls out, waving his hand in the air.‘Doctor Gottlieb!’

Hermann does not move; instead, another puff of steam obscures him momentarily from view, making his looming tall figure appear even more amorphous and distant. Shaking his head in reproach, Newt nimbly circles a well-dressed English woman weeping over the departure of her sons and makes a beeline towards his own mystery man.

Only after he draws close enough to see the chalk dust on the elbows of Hermann’s coat does he take a deep breath and enunciate, ‘ _Hermann.’_

The physicist nearly drops his old-fashioned leather suitcase as he turns, frantic. For a brief moment, Newt blames the flash of terror in his eyes on sheer surprise—but once the recognition settles, Hermann positively  _freezes_ , looking like a hunted deer moments before capture.

‘Finally,’ Newt blurts out, breathless and anxious, before he loses his nerve, and reaches out to pat Hermann awkwardly on the shoulder. ‘God. You’re difficult to follow, Doctor Gottlieb. I think I must have—dislodged a rib or something. Remind me to _never_ run with luggage again.’

There’s a moment of rapt, tense silence, jarring after the apparent levity of Newton’s last statement. Hermann hardly moves. 

‘My letter—has it not reached you?’ he says at length, his voice stilted and wan. Newt can see his throat work: Hermann swallows before tensing once again.

‘Oh, yeah,’ Newt says quickly, blinking. Fumbling, he reaches into the inner pocket of his frock and babbles, ‘I haven’t … I haven’t, uh read it. Yet. Sorry. Although—you can surely tell me whatever the hell was in there in person. Or I can just, give me a moment—’

He’s cut off by Hermann’s voice, effective in how startlingly, uncannily panicked it sounds.

‘No, Newton, no, for God’s sake. _No_. Haven’t they—’ he fumbles for words, clearly toodiscomposed and bewildered to structure coherent sentences, his eyes widening as he looks around frantically. ‘Has no one—has no one notified you about the _situation_ —’ 

Something dawns on Newt. It is his turn to hastily interrupt. 

‘Oh, no, no,’ he insists, holding up his hand consolingly as he tries not to appear as though he’s gone absolutely batty. ‘Worry not, Hermann. They very much _have_. Yes, you—you can consider me _thoroughly_ informed.’

‘And—’ Hermann stutters out, looking as though he were nearing an aneurysm, ‘and—well, why are you—what has—has something _changed?_ Did they send you to—I do not—’

‘Well, no,’ Newt says, feeling a sharp pang of guilt and mustering up an apologetic smile, ‘Darn it, _sorry_. That must have been misleading. You’re still being, ah … relocated. But! Well, there is one slight change. Due my response to the Marshal, when inquired about issuing a statement regarding the whole thing—well. Two’s company and all aboard the train, right? Oh _shit_ , wait, we really have to board the train, they’re whistling. Come on.’

Threading an arm through Hermann’s elbow, and not paying the other man’s reaction much attention, Newt tugs him towards the nearest door. There’s some slight hassle with aiding Hermann—or rather, being fervently shaken off Herman with a furious movement of the man’s elbow as he _tries_ to help—board the train. 

Nevertheless, soon enough they find themselves inside the ornate, burgundy-and-wood interior and Newton cannot _quite_ stifle the rush of adrenalin.

‘This is the most _riveting_ thing that has ever happened to me,’ he mutters to Hermann, trailing behind him through the narrow corridor and patting his elbow once again. The only response is a sharp intake of breath and remarkable fierceness with which his companion wrenches open the door to their compartment, never even looking Newt in the face.  

Once they are inside, Hermann wrenches himself from Newt’s proximity with such doggedness that Newt is forced to backtrack, as well, somewhat stunned.

‘Explain,’ Hermann seethes, cold fury on his face. ‘What. Exactly do you mean by _two’s company_. _Newton_.’

There’s something about the way he says the name, almost _vicious_ , that throws Newt off completely. For the first time since—God, for the first time since the beginning of the whole case—the possibility that his presence might not be desired or even seen in any kind of a _positive light_ altogether dawns on him.

‘Well, uh,’ he says, wincing slightly as he rubs at the back of his neck. ‘Given that the Marshal’s last words to me were _you’re aware that I am obliged to report you_ , I’m afraid you are … well, at least for the time being, quite stuck with a … side-kick.’

Hermann freezes. ‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning, y’know,’ Newt shrugs nonchalantly—the notion behind it oscillating around the fervent idea of not betraying how desperate he suddenly is not to be kicked out of the compartment—which probably winds up looking merely quite pathetic. 

‘It is what it is. Or—well, _no_. But it looks like it looks. For all they care, we might as well be eloping.’

Hermann’s unmoving eyes are fixed upon Newt’s face. _It’s not fury that’s so vivid in them,_ Newton realises suddenly, _not exactly. It’s something else—something more difficult to name—_

‘What exactly have you told the Marshal?’ Hermann asks, voice low and urgent.

‘In short?’ Newt says faintly. ‘I think _fuck you_ conveys the spirit quite well.’

Hermann is still staring at him, wide dark eyes in a face that seems near-translucent, _entirely_ devoid of blood. An audacious wayward thought fizzes up in Newt’s head, that Hermann looks _cold_ —that something should be _done_ to warm him—

‘What’s wrong?’ he asks instead, because— _because_ the way Hermann keeps wordlessly watching him seems less and less like anger and more and more like despair with each passing second. Despair, yes, that’s the searched name: sheer, expanding, solidifying despair.

‘ _Why_ ,’ Hermann utters at last, voice breaking as his hand convulses on his cane’s handle and—as though suddenly drained from any and all strength—he slinks down to the seat by the window. Only then does it strike Newton just how profoundly disturbed he must be—and unease seeps slowly into his system, dimming the vibrant epinephrine-spiked euphoria he’d been steadily submerged in during his chase to Paris.

‘Why, by _Jove_ ,’ Hermann whispers, ‘why the _devil_ have you done that.’

Newt gives a twitch, startled. It’s too confusing, too incongruent for him to analyse his own emotions, hazed and convoluted as they collide with Hermann’s reaction. So what he clings to is the simplest one, easiest one, familiar and right at the edge of his reasoning.

Anger.

‘Did you honestly think I would _not?’_ he snaps, startling even himself with how harsh he sounds. Hermann does not react, once again paralysed, beyond a small twitch of his right hand. The helpless movement almost manages to quell Newton’s gathering momentum—but not quite.

‘I that I’d ... that I would ... _what_ ,’ he continues, voice growing louder,‘issue a _statement_ clearing my name from all association with your name—did I even get that nonsense right, by the way?—after all those years of work, after all we have done for the community, all the _research_ —did you expect me to just _erase_ it and—’

Hermann begins shaking his head slowly, eyes fixed on some distant spot in space. It suddenly strikes Newt he’s on the verge of tears: and it’s exactly that never before witnessed vulnerability of expression that gives him pause at last.

‘No,’ Hermann whispers, as though to himself, looking away. ‘No, no. Not—not this. No.’ 

‘Now, Hermann, do _not_ —what are you doing?’ Suddenly acutely abashed, Newt moves closer on instinct—but Hermann flinches from him. He raises a hand, drawing a shaky semblance of a divide between them, and still facing decisively away. 

‘Your career,’ he speaks out, in a startlingly clear voice. ‘Your _life_. It’s ruined—it’s all …ruined. And for what,’ he spits out, viciously, eyes red-rimmed and wet, jaw tightening. ‘In the name of _what.’_

He is breathing heavily, face contorted with anguish. 

Objectively, it cannot be said that he looks either sweet or fetching at the moment, hunched and stiffened as he is, and yet Newton doesn’t think he has ever felt the _need_ to reach out and hold him more acutely. Something inside him lurches, once, painfully.

‘Human decency?’ he says sharply, too loud and too abrupt, pushing enough pressure onto the word for Hermann to twitch. 

Newt is still too confused, too—blast it, too _rushed_ into all this—to have a hold over how he approaches the fragile conviction growing inside him, how to communicate to Hermann that there was no other way to proceed, not for _one second_ , conceivable. That the only option was to follow. 

He tries again, desperately, ‘I do not— _listen_ to me, Hermann. I do not care about anyone’s opinion on this, all right? I do _not_.’

‘It’s more than just an opinion,’ Hermann counters, voice halting. ‘It’s—Newton, for God’s sake, it’s a bloody _life sentence_.’  

It’s a rare thing, for Hermann, to curse. Even in his own agitation, Newt perceives it as significant.

‘All right, then,’ he says quietly, trying to contain the tremble of his voice. 

He is aware that he is crossing a threshold, a point of no return—even if Hermann does not _know_ this, even if Hermann will not realise until Newt has enough time to summon a grasp of his own head and _make sense_ of all the fragmented links that are winding his conviction together—even if it’s all still _so far_ from being translatable into any sentence that Hermann could ever understand and accept.

Even then, he knows it with full certainty: that on this rattling train with shifting light falling through the window, before the thin unprepossessing man in a too-large chalk-stained coat, who is currently hiding his face in his hands, Newt has already traveled past the bridge of any questioning. 

All that remains is to persevere long enough to make his conviction communicable. 

Suddenly seized by the emotional value of own realisation, Newton finds himself gripping at the door handle as not to overwhelm Hermann as well, by doing something as _stupid_ and keening as falling to his knees and taking Hermann’s pale hands to kiss them.  

Oblivious to this unspoken rush of only-just-realised devotion, Hermann does not raise his eyes at him. ‘You do not seem to understand, Newton,’ he says instead, in the same dreadfully flat voice. ‘If we are not to part ways immediately, they _are_ going to accuse you.’

‘I _do_ understand,’ Newt retorts, getting a grip solid enough to make his voice level once again.

Hermann keeps staring at the floor, so intently as though he wished to burn a hole in it with the force of his insistence alone. ‘For something you did not do,’ he says, voice low.

‘For something that’s not a crime,’ Newt retorts, feeling his heart punch his ribcage with near-painful intensity. He pauses for a moment before adding, ‘Or shouldn’t be.’

There’s a moment’s quiet.

‘For something you _did not do,’_ Hermann repeats, as if he hadn’t heard Newton’s declaration.

Newt levels him with a hard stare, attempting to _will_ Hermann to look up, somehow, perhaps to read and _deduce_ all that he cannot formulate from Newt’s expression alone. ‘I might as well have,’ he counters voice blunt. ‘I’d be just as _guilty,_ is how I see it.’

Hermann inhales deeply and straightens up rapidly. His jaw clenches, giving his face the hard look of a statue cut in stone, silently intimidating. Were the circumstances any different, Newton might have felt an urge to either spur him further on into an argument—or backtrack. As it is he keeps quiet, waiting. 

Hermann opens his eyes and blinks, jaw working. ‘Even you cannot be such an idealist, Newton,’ he says, very calmly. ‘This cannot be a matter of defiance, as much as you find yourself innately tempted to act in opposition to whichever authority challenges you. One cannot _repair_ the world on a whim—and certainly not by _spite_. Not by mindlessly ruining his own life. Or letting someone else—letting _me_ —ruin it.’

Hermann’s voice wavers, by the end, and despite his rigid posture, his eyes won’t meet Newton’s still. 

Impatience flares on the peripheries of Newt’s mind, extinguishing the earlier voice of reason. 

‘God _damn_ it, Hermann,’ he grits out, finally sitting down heavily, if only to attempt to intercept Hermann’s gaze. ‘You did not. You did not _make_ me come after you, and you did not make me lose my temper in front of the Marshal when given an opportunity not to—as you put it— _ruin my life_ and career and whatever else. That’s all on me. That was a sober decision _I_ am actually glad of making, thank you very much.’

Hermann is looking vacantly out of the window—the train has left the outer circles of Paris by now, and is entering the September-burnished countryside. 

He looks, suddenly, very tired and very sad.

‘In spite of all your claims otherwise, you do _not_ understand, Newton. You _cannot_ understand,’ Hermann says after a moment—and Newt is struck by the jarring, defeated softness of his voice. ‘I have not … I have not been entirely frank with you.’

Newt blinks. ‘What do you mean?’

Hermann nods, a vague bitter smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. ‘And I’m afraid that I _need_ to be entirely frank with you: in present circumstances, I owe it to you. It is the least I can do, given how irreparably I have let the situation devolve as it is.’ 

As much as he instinctively wants to interrupt and object, Newt forces himself to remain silent, waiting for Hermann to pick up.

He finally does, slowly and haltingly, ‘I am … forgive me for saying this in a manner so coarse, but I have not been accused unjustly. Not in the past—but more importantly, not _now_. I have had—feelings for you. Feelings of an affectionate nature. I have felt that way for a long while. There is nothing selfless—nothing _admirable_ in anything I have done in regards to you, as all my motivation could be summarised as a wish of remaining close to your person. I shall understand—I shall understand if this changes your view on the situation. I shall understand if you never wish to speak to me again.’

Almost in direct opposition to his previous conduct, the words were soft and quiet in Hermann’s mouth, each voiced as an act of surrender. 

Which should make it easier for Newt to force his stunned lips to formulate a reply. Which should make it _possible_.

‘One thing I can promise—regardless of how you choose to proceed. You have my word, Newton,’ Hermann’s voice wavers, just so, but he forces himself to continue regardless,‘that you do not have to _fear_ me—any and all variation of the situation of three days prior will never happen again. I shall never act on these impulses.’

And with his, Hermann turns his head and finally _looks_ at Newton. The harsh sunlight sharpens the strange disharmony of his features, making him appear to Newton like a Roman sculpture, a photograph, something unlikely to touch—let alone to be the one _touching_.

Newt’s entire system seems to be trembling, vibrating silently to the thrum of his pulse. His throat feels tight, _strangled_ , his head feels overwrought with colliding processes. His _heart_ feels like it is s going to burst.

‘I would ask you to forgive me,’ Hermann says, voice breaking, ‘but I’m afraid I have no right.’

‘I—’ Newt tries, and can’t, just _cannot_ breathe, ‘—ah, I need some _air_.’  

Leaping to his feet, nearly stumbling into the door, he falls out of the compartment and dashes into the corridor. 

The world doesn’t stop spinning until he braces himself against the outer railing of the train’s last carriage, wind deafening in his ears. Hunching in on himself—torn between a flaring panic and some insane rush of sheer euphoria that seems incomparable to anything he has ever experienced before—he remains like that for an interminable time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next (and decisively less devastating) chapter, we arrive in the Mysterious City, Newt continues being an idiot (perhaps to a less damaging extent, at least), expresses some scientific admiration and cooks dinner. The quarters turn out to be very small, Hermann gets very cold at night, and there is some very bad singing. Lars Gottlieb is briefly but succinctly discussed. 
> 
> Also, _feelings._
> 
> [All of the poetry excerpts are drawn from the _Calamus_ section of Walt Whitman's _Leaves of Grass._ The title is from Hozier's _Shrike_ which is basically the anthem of this story, ha ...
> 
> Aaand. Getting reviews on any and all of the writing I publish on here is a thing of pure joy, but in this case in particular, I will literally love you forever if you read and comment – this story has grown from a faint, kind of painful idea into something that forced me to do quite a lot of research and ... well, not to be too Deep, but impacted me heavily as I was writing it. If you have any thoughts, either on this or the upcoming chapter – please consider sharing, here or on Tumblr. It would mean a lot <3]
> 
> [WHOEVER SPOTTED THE SUNNY REFERENCE. I SEE YOU AND I SEND MY DEEP APOLOGIES.]


	2. Hermann

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _‘You’ve come back,’ is what escapes his desperate traitorous lips anyway, hoarse and wan, as Newton takes his place in front of him. There’s a violent rush of hope in his veins, a yearning for a second chance he loathes himself to dare expect._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me just say that I have spent a truly distressing amount of time reading articles of the likes of '89 examples of Edwardian slang' before I came to the conclusion that I need to be coherent. Hence, please excuse my butchering of early 1900s vernacular. 
> 
> However, just bear in mind that 'old man/woman' was apparently an affectionate way of addressing one's spouse in the Victorian period.
> 
> Also, I share a lot of Newton's sentiments regarding the culture he praises in here. Just so the level of projecting checks out. 
> 
> Anyway – enjoy <3

_** You are often more bitter than I can bear, you burn and sting me, ** _

 

Newton does not return until early morning, when the train emerges from the trembling fumes of dew and mist and glides into the outskirts of Lausanne.

A sharp click of the doors is what alerts Hermann to his presence—he starts in his seat, stiff in a vigilant state of weary half-dosing, having hardly allowed himself a moment’s rest during the night, instead perceiving acutely a hollow coldness that has gathered in his chest.

Twitching under the provisional cover of his travel coat, he turns his face to the door.

Newton slides into the compartment with a mere fraction of his usual vivacity: dishevelled, vaguely red-eyed and _shivering_ ; muttering something about the temperature, and Hermann finds himself so pitifully, mind-numbingly _relieved_ he has returned at all that he vows to himself not to speak a word of the cause of his departure. 

‘You’ve come back,’ is what escapes his desperate traitorous lips anyway, hoarse and wan, as Newton takes his place in front of him. There’s a violent rush of hope in his veins, a yearning for a second chance he loathes himself to dare expect. Clenching his jaw, he curses himself and waits for Newton to respond.

Newton raises his gaze at him—Hermann is taken aback as he does not seek to avoid eye contact, instead studying Hermann’s face carefully. He seems to be swaying on the brink of proclaiming something, but holds himself back at the last moment.

Briefly, in a rare tug of blunt audacity, he wishes he could be another man, someone bold enough to persevere, reach forward and take Newton’s hands, the ones that weren’t made for any such coldness, in his. But his relief that the rejection wasn’t permanent, that something in their companionship may yet be salvageable lends Hermann newfound strength to restrain himself even more rigidly than he is used to.

‘Of course,’ Newt says at length, his voice quieter and far less blunt than he tends to be. ‘As I’ve said, you’re—ah,’ he hesitates, ‘quite stuck with me.’

Something frigid coils itself in Hermann’s ribcage, cutting through the choking relief and reminding of his own fatally accurate words the previous day— _a life sentence_. In all honesty, even if he _were_ to feel abhorred by Hermann’s affection, where _would_ Newton go, before they reach their journey’s destination?

There was nowhere to go, not for the time being.

Swallowing, Hermann nods and averts his eyes to the window, to the lilac-tinged rise-and-fall of the mountain range behind of it, reflected sharply in the harsh blue of the water.

‘Yes,’ he says distantly, allowing his voice to return to its usual withdrawn and cold formality, even as he finds himself having trouble breathing. ‘I believe that’s quite apt a description.’

 

 

* * *

 

They do not converse much during the rest of the journey, each busying himself with own studies—making the exception for having a modest lunch in the train’s crowded dining carriage. Yet even then, the topic of their exchanges remains strictly tied to professional endeavours, as they discuss the recent breakthrough and pointedly avoid its troubling aftermath, maintaining a draining air of false geniality.

Hermann attempts to force himself to perceive it as a small mercy: the less openness is there between them, the less probability for him to continue straining himself with delusions.

As it is, however, he once again proves a fool, grieving the honesty of their companionship, which he has now come to perceive as irreversibly lost.

 

* * *

**_To begin with take warning, I am surely far different from what you suppose;_ **

 

Italy comes to them warm and stunning with colour and fragrance, eerie after more stilted greys and greens of the preceding landscapes. 

Upon disembarking from the train, they are due to retrieve all of Newton’s ludicrously numerous luggage from the reclamation point. Even so, Hermann finds himself momentarily blinded by the persistent sunlight, overwhelmed by the unfamiliar humidity. Tugging nervously at his cravat, he glances around the station in a daze: the animation of loud conversation around feels suffocating. He feels out of place—he must surely stand out among the vibrant people surrounding him.

Stepping backwards, he accidentally brushes past Newton, who’s only just managed to collect the last of his trunks and drag it away from reclamation—and, semi-consciously seeking any semblance of stability at all, Hermann finds himself clutching involuntarily at his companion’s forearm, as though to thread their arms together.

‘Everything all right?’ Newton says, his voice cutting through the haze.

Startled, Hermann turns to face him and freezes. In what seems to be a split of second, he remembers himself and withdraws abruptly, dropping Newton’s arm, his eyes widening in remorse.

‘I—I did not mean to—’ he stammers, cursing his own foolishness and clutching at his cane and the overcoat he keeps folded upon his forearm. ‘Forgive me.’

Newton blinks at him—wide guileless eyes in his familiar scruffy face, the expression of which seems illogically clueless. It’s somewhat distracting—maddeningly so—how the brim of his hat is crooked, letting the unruly hair stick out over his forehead.

‘Forgive you _what?’_ Newton asks, looking concerned. ‘Are you unwell?’ 

‘For my—for—’ Now that it comes to it, voicing his fault seems ridiculous, and Hermann flounders. ‘I touched you. Without—I did not mean to.’

For a moment, Newt just stares at him, blinking. Finally, he shakes his head.

‘Hermann,’ he says, and then trails off. ‘ _What?_ ’

Hermann inhales, looking around in mounting panic—it seems to him as though everyone must be listening on, disturbed by their exchange even in the moderately secluded spot. He blurts, ‘It was—absolutely inappropriate, not to mention terribly inconsiderate of me to do so without prior consultation, given the … recent developments. I can only—’

‘Hermann,’ Newt interjects, voice considerably louder than before, leaning closer. ‘Good _God_. Stop this immediately.’ 

Entirely seized by paranoia by now, Hermann meets Newton’s gaze with his own frantic eyes. ‘I only meant to say—I am _sorry_ —’

He is not allowed to spiral even further; before he manages to utter another word, Newton reaches out impulsively and pulls him into an embrace.

‘Stop,’ he repeats, insistently, squeezing the shock-stiffened Hermann as though they were friends wont to part forever. ‘You need to stop this. All right? Stop right now.’

‘Newton,’ Hermann splutters, heart-rate skyrocketing as he finds himself tightly enclosed in the embrace, struck with a strong waft Newton’s cologne and the warmth of his body. ‘You are not—I do not expect you to—’

‘Hermann, shut up,’ Newt cuts in, and the effect is immediate: Hermann falls silent against his will; shellshocked into obedience mostly—if not entirely—by the realisation that he can feel Newton’s breath, warm and damp, on his _own skin;_ discern the slight scratch of his stubble at the juncture of his neck and jaw. 

‘I’m not pulling any weird shit on you, man, I’m giving you a _hug,’_ Newt whispers, as though to calm Hermann down with his lowered intonation—a ridiculous little semblance of privacy. ‘Just give me the benefit of the doubt, all right?’

For a moment, Hermann cannot force himself to speak, throat tight with something that’s neither panic nor affection—or possibly, something that is suddenly _both_.

‘… Yes,’ he allows finally, very quietly, tension relenting as he feels one of Newton’s hands rub lightly at the spot between his shoulder blades. 

Newt sighs—Hermann can feel his ribs contracting through the layers of clothing, can feel the micro-movements as Newt shakes his head.

‘Christ, Hermann,’ he mutters, ‘ You never say what is actually wrong, do you? Be it physical or psychological, all you do is wait and grow more and more miserable with each passing moment—’

‘Can you _blame_ me?’ Hermann snaps, attempting to wrench himself away in a rare burst of fierce defiance regarding his private trouble, and instantly regrets it as Newton grows rigid.

_(Forgive me,_ he thinks instantly. _Forgive me.)_

He swallows, mortified and somehow—inconceivably—unable to force himself to withdraw from the embrace after all; unable to face Newton, even as he grows more and more ashamed of his own touch-starvation.

Then, ‘No,’ Newt whispers, one of his hands splaying on Hermann’s back, pulling him even closer, flush against one another, pressing down as if to tighten the embrace. ‘No, I can’t. I _don’t_. I’m sorry, I’m _sorry,_ I don’t.’

Overcome with a sudden unwanted emotion—one he is still convinced he does not deserve—Hermann nods, letting himself cling to Newton while he is still allowed. He’s _allowed_ to accept this, he’s _allowed_ this frail moment of _being accepted_ coming from another human being. He _must_ be. 

His vision is blurry from moisture.

 

* * *

**_(it comes to me as of a dream,)_ **

 

The quarters Hermann has been issued turn out to be located in a deep end of Giudecca, the southernmost of Venetian _sestieri—_ a fact which, quite possibly, _should_ have alerted him to the imminent occurrence of the nerve-wrecking hassle that is attempting to safely board a tiny rented gondola along with his cane and Newton’s _ludicrous_ amount of _ludicrously_ heavy luggage—as well as a skinny young gondolier who speaks no word of English as their sole assistant.

His unease hardly abates once they find themselves afloat.

Hermann is still not quite certain what Newton’s attitude towards him is: though the man seems more at ease—that much is certain—than he had appeared on the train, he reckons that much of it must surely be ascribed to exhaustion. 

Their earlier embrace, while appreciated, was not nearly as coherent a response as Hermann would have wished for—he _suspects_ that Newton has meant it as a sign of burying the proverbial hatchet regarding their perplexing arrangement, but the genuine depth of his actual discomfort regarding Hermann’s revelation remains unnervingly unclear.

_Still,_ Hermann tells himself—as they glide under the marble of Palazzo Grassi, hazed by the softly insistent light into something only just short of blinding; venturing to sail out from the narrower passages and into Canale Grande—feeling either vaguely seasick or vaguely sick with nerves, _no way to know for sure except to wait._

Yet even despite his apprehensions, he has to admit that the city itself is nothing short of mesmerising—though he hardly tends to pay much attention to the aesthetics of his surroundings, Hermann does occasionally appreciate a nice building—and even more so, a well-conceived mathematical design. As reluctant as he may be, he cannot dispute the alluring charm of Venetian architecture.

Newton seems to share his sentiment, albeit in his own peculiar way. 

He’s dangling from the side of the gondola as though _attempting_ to topple into the water, peering up and down the banks of Dorsoduro as they glide further inwards into the city.

‘Is this built on planks?’ he calls out shrilly to the young gondolier who gives him a blank look and then grins sheepishly—a response which Hermann has discovered to be his default regardless of the question. ‘As in, the whole city? Man, this is _sneaky_. Can you imagine, Hermann? Plenty of good old earth everywhere but—nay, we shall build ourselves some more! On the godforsaken _sea_. I love it—why didn’t it crush? How does it still—was this fortified at some point?’

Hermann does not respond, knowing well that no response is _expected_.

‘ _Human_ has truly come to mean what _god_ should be,’ Newt meanwhile continues, a rough dramatically, tilting even further towards the filthy teal of the water, ‘playing creation. Building worlds out of dust. Could you ever conceive of a land built of sheer science, Hermann? And yet here we are to tread upon, _whoa_ —’

In a strike of fairly notable agility—accompanied by the gondolier’s outcry—Hermann manages to plunge forward fast enough to get a clutch on the coattails of Newton’s gaudy frock and yank him back, mere seconds before he topples forward.

‘For God’s _sake_ , Newton,’ Hermann snaps, pulling the dazed scientist roughly onto the wooden trunk trapped between his knees— _and_ ignoring the young gondolier’s amused _fai attenzione, signori!_ lest he loses his temper and strangles the boy—‘ _Do_ be careful and try not to drown. I hardly need manslaughter added to the list of my supposed offences, thank you very much.’

Rubbing his wrist, Hermann withdraws back into the far nook of the gondola, wondering briefly if he hasn’t crossed a boundary with the snipe—but fortunately, all Newton does is grin somewhat sheepishly, fixing his suspenders and sitting up.

‘I may _try_ ,’ he mutters, squirming.

 

* * *

**_I have somewhere surely lived a life of joy with you,_ **

 

Their quarters—nay, their _attic_ , if one is inclined towards euphemistic generosity!—on the topmost floor of the building, under a faulty roof, with fading peach-tinted sunlight leaking in, are, lacking a better word, _tiny_. 

The main area splits and divides into a kitchen nook and a small ensuite bathroom, having an ornate old-fashioned screen shelter the remaining slight ascension of the bed alcove. 

_Bed, singular_ , Hermann notes with gradually whelming dread, _and clearly only suited for people comfortable with sharing personal space to an alarming degree._

The main window, enclosed in an age-old marble arch and a small balustrade, overlooks the narrow canal and a twin wall on the opposite side. From the outside, they can hear the faint mellifluous chatter in the native language, streaming through the open windows. 

Tiny. Devoid, for the time being, of central heating—which, what with the sun having set already, becomes acutely perceivable. Fit for one person only, _perhaps_ for young inseparable lovers. Decisively _unfit_ for an aching man with a cane and his only surviving friend, frightened into almost running away by the other’s affections.

It is a disaster.

‘Cosy,’ Newton comments warmly, breaking the tense silence and giving Hermann a start. He seems, bizarrely enough, wholly unperturbed by the alarming state of their new housing. ‘I dig it.’

‘And just what kind of a phrase is that?’ Hermann says, waspish and defensive nearly on instinct—and quite in spite of reason. ‘You _dig_ it? I am sure there must be something you are seeing that I have overlooked! Perhaps a hidden room or a spare bed, as I find them blatantly _lacking_.’

Newt drops one of his numerous suitcases to the floor and gives Hermann a very peculiar sideways look that seems to combine annoyance with amusement. 

He looks a picture, Hermann must admit: in _dire_ need of a change of clothes, even more ruffled and scruffier than he tends to be, with shades under his eyes and spectacles sliding down his nose which seems to have mysteriously acquired a fresh array of freckles—still somehow, irrationally, _alluring_.

Hermann is sure that whatever miserable state he must appear to be in, it is nowhere near as becoming to his person. 

‘Would you loosen up,’ Newt meanwhile mutters, breaking the spell—Hermann tenses. 

It is bad enough that the steep staircase has proven too severe a challenge for Hermann’s overstrained, travel-stiffened knee, and he’s had to lean almost entirely on Newton for support, having the other man’s surprisingly strong arm braced humiliatingly around the waist—he needs _not_ another lapse of sanity, should he desire for them to maintain any working relationship at all. 

‘ _Loosen up?_ Why, I believe that is what has landed me in trouble in the first place, isn’t it?’ Hermann bites back, entirely without second thought. ‘So perhaps better _not_.’

He realises the incriminating flippancy of what he has uttered as soon as the words leave his mouth—and a well-known look of inherent _defiance_ flares in Newton’s eyes.

‘Hm,’ is all Newton says. 

Hermann winces, looking away, and attempts to conceal his discomfort by shuffling across the room. His body betrays him—as it tends to do, the wretched vessel Hermann curses the need for inhabiting—with a violent involuntary shiver, which causes him to grip at his cane and which fails to escape Newton’s notice. 

His keen, miscellaneously blue-green eyes bore into Hermann. 

‘It’s a little cold in here,’ he remarks, as though the revelation has only just dawned on him.

‘Indeed, it is no _Inferno_ ,’ Hermann says wryly, gripping his cane more tightly and raising his chin. ‘We _may_ blame that on the scientific miracle of the dampness from the canals, I should think.’

Newt narrows his eyes—for a brief, unsettling moment Hermann feels pierced, laid out for scrutiny, _judged_. _Nonsense_ , he thinks erratically, clenching his jaw in defence, _if he hadn’t condemned you for what he already knows,_ _why should he judge something as trivial as a health deficit._

‘You need to _eat_ something,’ Newt declares rapidly, taking an unexpected step towards Hermann and poking him had on the sternum. Hermann blinks, surprised, instinctively raising a hand to his chest. ‘You’re _much_ too thin. That’s why you’re cold, you need … you need insulation. No worries, though, old man—you have got yourself a _virtuoso_. Dinner is in order— _doctor’s_ order. That is, mine.’

‘Because,’ he quickly elaborates, only just before Hermann’s cringe manages to bloom into a developed and voiced protest, ‘no offence, _Doctor_ Gottlieb, but I am not at all convinced you _can_ cook.’

Once more, Hermann endeavours to protest, but Newton interjects, ‘Cook something with actual taste value in it, that is.’

Hermann closes his mouth. ‘Very well, then,’ he says, giving Newt a thin-lipped sceptical smile. ‘Let us first examine that _order_ you are talking about regarding its _taste value_.’

Newt rubs his hands together, smiling. ‘Give me an hour. I’ll be back in an hour.’

 

* * *

 

Much to Hermann’s surprise—given that he has been expecting something rather like the previous disappearance on the train—Newton _does_ indeed come back in the span of an hour, alerting Hermann to his return by a violent banging on the door. He proceeds to very nearly tumble to the floor when the door is opened, weighed down by an armful of food wrapped in brown paper.

‘Hermann, _old man_ ,’ he pants, making a rather elliptic beeline for the tiny kitchen alcove, and ignoring Hermann’s balk at the recurring address, ‘this is—this—a goddamned _Cornucopia_ is what it is, I’m telling you.’

‘Cornucopia,’ Hermann repeats, sceptically, and attempts to lean over Newton’s arm and steal a glance at the insides of his papers. Newton bats him away with an indignant tsk.

‘Nuh-uh,’ he says menacingly, glowering. ‘I’m the chef. You’re the guest. Get out of my kitchen, you heathen, and patiently wait until I am finished.’

‘You, Doctor Geiszler,’ Hermann says, in unfeigned distaste, ‘are well and truly a _child_.’

In the end, however, Hermann finds himself pleasantly surprised at how nimble and efficient the effect of Newton’s ministrations turns out to be—even though all Newton _has_ done is collect an array of seemingly mismatched local oddities: a couple of types of cheese Hermann vaguely recognises, a bunch of ripe vegetables and a bottle of what looks like a reasonably aged Chianti. 

(Earlier, he has marvelled silently at the cheery enthusiasm with which Newt has taken to chopping the ingredients, humming a wobbly semblance of an aria in considerably feeble German the whole time.)

‘I am finding that I harbour a _deep_ scientific admiration for the Italian people,’ Newt presently gushes through a mouthful of focaccia and gorgonzola cheese dipped in pesto Hermann witnessed him making from scratch. ‘I just … I love ‘em. They know what they are doing: you have the good, you learn how to _exploit_ it. Cheap, _delicious_ , no stupid French snobbery attached. Lord _almighty_ , this is good. This is fuckin’ brilliant. I’m gonna love it here.’

Though reasonably sceptical of the probability of such a statement proving true long-term, Hermann cannot _quite_ stifle a smile at the manner in which Newt beams soppily at his impromptu dinner and proceeds to pour them both wine. 

‘I admit,’ he says, carefully, ‘That this _is_ remarkably decent, given the funds it required.’

Newt squints at him pensively as he swallows half of his wine in one go.

‘And the herald angels sang,’ he says vaguely. ‘Dear me. Now, this is, I think, the first time I’ve seen you actually _smile_ since we’ve left, Hermann, so I’d wager a guess it’s better than _decent_.’

Hermann scoffs, but doesn’t quite bash the smile. ‘If you say so.’

There’s a moment of comfortable, companionable silence and Hermann dares to taste his wine.

‘So,’ Newt says finally, sounding somewhat stymied, ‘about … about the reason we are here at all. I don’t … I do _not_ want to be too blunt about it but I do … I do wonder if you can tell me what exactly happened to you in the past that caused them to make such a big deal out of the whole case.Tendo wouldn’t—Tendo wouldn’t elaborate. I mean, for God’s sake, you are literally one of the biggest _minds_ of the whole institution and they shipped you off to goddamned Italy to _avoid scandal …_ ’

Overcome with a heavy cold feeling, Hermann stiffens for a moment, collecting his thoughts.

Apparently, a moment too _long_.

‘Shit,’ Newt says, setting his glass haphazardly aside with a noise. His cheeks are flushed and an alarming question occurs to Hermann of whether he is not inebriated already. ‘I’m sorry. I’m being an utter bastard. You don’t—you do not _have_ to tell me anything. Forgive me, Hermann, I should not have—’

‘No,’ Hermann interrupts, quietly. ‘It’s quite all right. The events officer Choi has alluded to transpired while I was still a student in Berlin. There was a … a dalliance, shall we say, involving another student. A male student.’ 

It feels odd, _foreign_ , to say it out loud: it occurs to Hermann he has never done it before.

‘Yes, I kind of cottoned on by now that it was no _bonnie lass_ you’ve led astray _,_ Hermann,’ Newton says sarcastically and Hermann sighs, rolling his eyes.

'Can you … tell me about it?’ Newton asks after a moment, licking the residual splotch of pesto from his thumb and shooting Hermann a nearly timid, careful glance. His voice is strangely strained. ‘Only if you want to, that is.’

Hermann manages a bitter half-smile, tilting the wine glass in his hand. ‘I don’t see why not,’ he says softly. ‘I did promise to be entirely _honest_ with you—and I intend to keep that promise.’

Newt nods thoughtfully, eyes hardly leaving Hermann’s face. He bites at the inside of his cheek, hollowing it out. ‘So you had an _affair_ ,’ he says finally, a lingering note to his voice drawing it out into a question, but at the same time, tinging it with something that borders with fascination.

Hermann scoffs, letting his eyes fixate on an indefinite spot to the right of Newt’s head, allowing the fervently suppressed memories to rise to the surface. He is—perhaps unwisely— _glad_ of the vague haze the alcohol is already inducing in his nerve system; not quite enough to cloud his mind, not yet, but enough to let him feel inert and pliant to the recount of his life, making it genuine where his usual inhibitions would inevitably censor it.

‘To call it an affair would be an overstatement, I’m afraid,’ he states after a while. ‘We were both very young and very foolish. If anything, it was a very … sudden foray into self-discovery, intoxicating but brought rapidly to a very harsh end. I do not doubt—I can hardly think myself the only one to come out of it negatively impacted. We were careless. I could not end well.’

‘Have you …’ Newton pauses. He sounds uncannily embarrassed, quiet and careful where he’d normally push at the boundaries. ‘Tendo said you were accused of—of, ah, corrupting that other boy.’ There’s another strained pause and Hermann averts his eyes from Newton’s flushed, embarrassed expression. ‘Which is just … I mean, to hell with it, Hermann. I _know_ you. And I just cannot _see_ it. I can’t see you … _throwing_ yourself at someone without considering all the implications of it, no matter how young you were, no matter how … _enamoured_. I—God, I knew you _then_. If only by writing—I did. I cannot see it.’

Hermann shrugs stiffly, blinking heavily and fighting the urge to swallow, fighting the sudden overwhelming tightness of his throat. The raw old feeling of injustice is difficult to stifle, even so many long years later—and the fact that Newton finds the very injury with infallible precision does not _help_. 

It seems wicked, _unfair_ of him, to say, _I knew you,_ now that it is already too late to salvage anything at all—and more wicked still of Hermann to suddenly demand anything of the ghost of young Newton, whom he’d taken fervent, desperate care never to notify about the shameful incident.

_Never to let him find out._ Hermann gives in and swallows, trying to compose himself, irrevocably stricken by the realisation that the dreaded _has happened already_ and he— _they_ —are moving past it. In whichever direction, with whatever rejection still to come, they are—

It is dizzying—suddenly, he regrets drinking the wine, despite his earlier thoughts.

‘Which is to say,’ Newt says abruptly, and Hermann realises that again, he has been quiet for far too long. He raises his eyes and sees concern in Newton’s drawn, _beloved—ah, goddamn it, yes, beloved, for agonising years now—_ face. Something in his ribcage coils even tighter. 

‘Which is to say—whatever happened, I _refuse_ to blame you. Even if you did something—’

‘I didn’t,’ Hermann says quietly, and it comes out steadier than he feels by miles. ‘Or—I do not think so. If there is something I am sure of, after … ah, _years_ now, of tormenting myself with the recollection, is that the mistake was two-sided. I simply took the hit—for … for certain independent reasons.’

Newt frowns, biting at his lower lip—a distracting little mannerism signalling deep focus, with which Hermann is all too familiar with. ‘Such as?’ 

Hermann inhales deeply, steeling his nerves.

‘My … father,’ he says finally, slowly, trying to constrain the violent ache in his chest and remain composed, for the sake of granting Newton full clarity. The thought that this is the reason for such frightening exposure—repaying at least a fraction of his debt to Newton—helps him steady himself. 

‘My father did not take well to my indiscretions. He had always suspected something was amiss in my carriage, I reckon, beginning with my leg and ending at the many oddities of my behaviour. Due to this, I believe, he found all that has transpired doubly damning—leading him to believe me sick, _twisted_. He was the one to deport me from Germany, enlist me in the military. I think he expected me to right myself. I have—attempted to do as much but, ah. Apparently the damage runs _deep_.’

Feeling too sick to continue, Hermann falls silent. Carefully, he sets his glass down, swallowing once again. His hand is shaking.

It is unavoidable not to compare this present night to the one in the laboratory, among the hazy smoke and dulled euphoria of scientific discovery, when he’d given in and leant towards Newton—the way he’d never before dared. 

It is frightening.

‘I’m sorry to say something as profoundly disrespectful,’ Newt says suddenly, disrupting the consuming silence. His voice is loud, hard and solemn—and Hermann braces himself for what’s surely to come, ‘but your father sounds like the last filthy louse on a rabid mongrel, Hermann.’

Quite in spite of himself, Hermann snorts, startled. In his astonishment, he forgets himself and looks up. ‘That’s … _lovely_ , Newton,’ he manages eventually, voice mercifully wry despite its slight tremble. ‘Very … evocative, indeed.’

‘Yeah. No, you know, actually,’ Newt says, shaking his head as he munches pensively on a stick of _grissini_. ‘I am not sorry at all. What a bastard. I mean—obviously, some may be disappointed with their children’s conduct, but you are—and I am quite serious, Hermann, even though you shall likely bring this up in the worst moment someday and make me regret saying this—you’re a man of the _brightest_ mind I have ever encountered. More than that. You’re a _good_ man. Your father … your father is a fool not to see it. That’s what I reckon.’

Touched more than he would ever care to let on, and fearing there may be some misgivings already, Hermann stares helplessly at his hands, thrown off balance.

Years later, millions of mistakes—including the gravest and most mourned of all: that he actually exposed himself past the safety of pure mind translated into shared language, and ruined the chance for that long-mourned easy epistolary companionship—and yet something is still there, and something may still be ahead.

_Rejoice this odd kinship_ , whisper the voices in Hermann’s head, _and tend to it while it lasts._

‘Thank you, Newton,’ is what he manages at last, very quietly.

He shivers again: it is still cold, and his inadequate body will make it unbearable for him to cherish the rare feeling of relevance much sooner than he’d like, much sooner than it’s fair. But at least, and it’s definitely— _definitely_ —not nothing, he’ll have this one quantifiable moment to later recall.

He dares not look up, lest he spoils it.

 

* * *

_**No longer abash’d, (for in this secluded spot I can respond** _

_** as I would not dare elsewhere,) ** _

 

Newton is fast asleep when Hermann carefully sits up—at least, judging by the steady rhythm of deep breaths coming from his side of the bed. It comes as no surprise to Hermann: he has no idea what Newton has been doing to pass the hours on the train the previous night but finds it hard to believe _sleeping_ could be listed among feasible options.

( _‘You’re being ridiculous,’ Newt sighed, rubbing at one blurry eye, after Hermann had raised his concerns. His voice was lowered, gone soft and hoarse. He had washed, changed into his softer night-clothes and crawled underneath the thin silky blankets—and was presently frowning at Hermann who insisted on laying down atop the covers, so that no unwanted physical contact could mistakenly occur._

_‘I can’t afford not to be,’ Hermann replied quietly, averting his eyes and half-despising himself for marring their earlier easy companionship with such harshly sober reality. ‘Not with how much I already owe you.’_

_‘You don’t own me shit, man,’ came Newton’s drowsy mutter of a response—and it shouldn’t, it should_ not _have been as maddeningly sweet a thing to say as Hermann couldn’t help but find it._ )

As it was, Newton has proven too wine-lulled and exhausted to as much as pretend he could hold an argument and—after murmuring an incongruous _‘G’night, then’_ —drifted off near-instantly following their exchange.

It is nearing daybreak now, Hermann knows, as evidenced by the faint smudges of misty, clouded light beginning to seep through the cracks of the leaky ceiling and green-painted shutters. From outside, he can pick up on the faint shifting noise of gondola oars submerged in the water. Hermann imagines the unshaped eerie city emerging from the ubiquitous, heavy mist: briny and damp from seaweed, half-dead in the rigid cold of early morning, _strange_.

Once again, he perceives the odd connection acutely: there’s something inherently morbid, _deathly_ about this place00something he can’t help but relate to.

He shivers.

The stark reality, bland and tedious against his dramatic vision, is that he could never do well in low temperatures—his stiff leg flaring with dull pain and tidal waves of nausea, ricocheting through his entire frame, murdering sleep. Right now, the dampness of the attic and the fine frail fabric of his covering do little to alleviate the sickness.

Hermann buries his head in his hands, hunched on the edge of the bed. He allows himself, for a brief sharp moment, to conceive—nay, _dream_ —of an altogether different reality, where simply turning to seek some of the abundant warmth Newt seems to have to share, would not be so painfully beyond reach.

He shuts his eyes, inhales slowly and lets himself perceive the ghostlike vision of—

There’s a vague _rustling_ sound. Seconds later Hermann all but leaps out of the bed with a strangled scream as something— _warm_ , yes and _mobile—_ smacks him discordantly on the elbow, skims across the skin of one of his wrists, then wraps ungainly around his hand.

‘You stupid—’ comes a hoarse sleep-hazy voice, _Newton’s_ voice—and Hermann tries to calm his racing pulse as _Newton’s_ clumsy persistent hands sneak even closer to wrap around his middle and pull him firmly back, radiating warmth like a furnace, ‘—icicle. You absolute goddamned _loony_. Get down under the blanket, dingbat, before you freeze to death.’

‘Newton,’ Hermann manages, weakly—as it is, he is rendered virtually pliant by surprise, allowing Newton to wrestle him awkwardly back onto the mattress. ‘I do _not_ require—’

‘Oh my God, _shut_ _up_ ,’ Newton growls, interrupting, and lets go of him to squirm among the sheets—in the twilight, it is difficult to discern what exactly is he doing, so Hermann tenses in nonsensical anticipation.

‘You want to—to, I don’t know, die a tragic romantic death of galloping consumption, cough all your blood out and leave _me_ stranded here alone and miserable? S’that what you’re aiming for? Cause that’s—a good way to go about that, Hermann, for sure, and—’

Something cold twists in Hermann’s stomach, chasing away the earlier soft surprise. ‘I do _not_ ,’ he said, voice far too brittle and bitter to be concealed under the name of rightful annoyance, ‘and never _have_ wished any of this on y—’

He’s interrupted, rather ostentatiously, by Newton ceasing to wiggle and choosing to fling what seems to be half his body _and_ all of the blankets he’s been previously wrapped in across Hermann, effectively cutting off his breath.

‘ _There_ ,’ Newt says triumphantly, patting the wayward edge of the blanket firmly down.

As Hermann freezes, speechless and fairly stunned by the striking contrast of Newton’s body temperature with his own, shocking his own nerves into conflicting sensations, Newt sniffles and then—no _, no_ —pulls Hermann even closer, pressing flush against him, restless hands sneaking across the bony ribs and pulling lightly on the fabric of his night shirt.

‘What—’ Hermann chokes out, dizzy.

‘Body heat, _capisci?_ Easiest, most effective way of warming anyone up—trust your local biologist,’ Newt explains, voice already sleepy and endearingly hazy—in response to the tense, startled intake of breath Hermann cannot stifle. Then he considers something and adds in a vaguely stymied, voice. ‘Well, _almost_. Anyway. Go to sleep, Hermann.’

Hermann’s body betrays him once again, finding it impossible not to give in to the pretence of closeness after years of quiet yearning; he does not protest.

 

* * *

**_I Dream’d in a Dream_ **

Hermann wakes disoriented: he is tangled in an unfamiliar silky sheet, unfamiliarly warmed to the point of near discomfort, with unfamiliar heavy light seeping through the window, tinging everything around him with an improbable warm hue. There are vague noises surrounding him: a singing, a soft lapping of water, trickling from the outside. There’s a vague scent of seawater permeating the air.

Warily, Hermann gathers himself from the tussled sheets, perceiving acutely the clinging of his night-shirt to the skin: he is not used to waking in any state but cold stiffness of joints and blue-tinged fingertips.

Still dazed, he rubs at his eyes, trying to chase away the remnants of his—confusing, convoluted, alarmingly sensory—dreams and make sense of his surroundings: a small double bed, green-painted shutters, wooden floor. Something unsettling about it, something missing, something like—

A spike of cold dread pierces Hermann.

_Newton_. The absence of Newton; following the events which transpired at night.

The thought of Newton being unable—due embarrassment? delayed repulsion?—to remain in the same space as Hermann post-awakening seems equal parts too bizarre to be realistic and too dreadful _not_ to be, so Hermann can’t help but accept it. He pictures the other man’s departure like a mirror reflection of the exchange on the train: rushed, desperate for distance. Justified.

Shutting his eyes, he allows himself a moment of desolation, before he braces himself and composes enough to stagger to the tiny ensuite bathroom, hunted by the dawdling creaks of the wooden floor with each uneven step.

The mirror inside is clouded and stained with age—and yet, even such a triviality seems unnecessarily adorned with its intricate frame. 

Hermann stares at his own reflection, jarring in contrast with the mellow Southern light leaking in through the small window: he is pallid, exhausted, heavy-eyed—resembling a ghastly apparition that has risen from one of the canals more than a living human being.

But there is something _off_ about the picture, something out of the order, and the realisation of it startles Hermann even more. 

He still _smells_ like Newt; bears traces of his recent nearness. Clothes sleep-wrinkled from the proximity, from the way Newt’s ankle has during the night hooked around the calf of Hermann’s good leg and dragged his whole body seamlessly closer. Cheek half-flushed from the face unconsciously nuzzled his into the side of Hermann’s neck—evidence of his presence, fast asleep, as Hermann lay still and fretful for hours an end, staring at the ceiling and feeling sick with wanting.

Such terrifying intimacy in this, so undeserved, so treacherous. Hermann could see himself, so _easily_ , claiming such a liberty to touch and hold every day, making use of it. 

He can see in perfect clarity how he would taint and abuse it.

Clenching his jaw at the red tinge of his eyes, Hermann splashes his face with cold water.

 

* * *

**_ kiss’d him, _ **

 

‘I stand by what I said,’ are the first words Hermann hears upon stepping out of the bathroom, wrapped in his long bathrobe and profoundly startled by Newton’s unwitnessed return. ‘I love Italians. Look what I’ve got here.’

Newton looks flushed and triumphant; dressed in soft linen trousers—instead of that _horrid_ hunting atrocity he tends to wear—and with the sleeves of his shirt rolled up, exposing the inking of his arms. It takes a while for Hermann to focus on the little tray he’s placed precariously on the old coffee table—there’s a small basket of sweet-scented breadstuff and some ripe-looking fruit, two cups, and a copper coffee pot filled with a fragrant dark liquid.

‘A tiny old lady lives downstairs,’ Newt says, pulling a chair closer and beckoning for Hermann to sit down, ‘whom I have— _sadly_ —nearly knocked over. She didn’t understand me very well, I think, but she understood _enough_ to both scold me for being loud _and_ try to stuff me with coffee and pastries. I told her that _mio caro amico_ _Hermann_ is dying of starvation upstairs and she decided to lend me this whole thing instead. These are real figs, Hermann. Best thing I’ve ever tasted. _Buongiorno_.’

Hermann frowns or blinks or perhaps tries to mutter something that comes out noncommittal—he cannot be _sure_. Newton’s hair is tousled beyond measure, softer than expected in proximity, brighter. He’s thrown the shutters open and the sun—so foreign still after months spent in their dingy English laboratory’s cold half-shadows—floods the room.

His thoughts race back to minutes prior, to the bathroom mirror and his own appearance—most likely the most vulnerable he’s ever looked in front of Newton. He feels like he’s lost his balance. 

‘Good morning to you, too, Newton,’ he says at last, cautiously, shifting in his seat. ‘This really does—it does look very lovely. I—thank you.’

Newton beams at him, his expression bright and open, and Hermann’s heart stutters. ‘I’ve also got the morning paper and I don’t understand a _single_ word,’ Newt says, sounding ludicrously cheered by the thought. 

Hermann cannot relate. The old feeling of paralysing cold—one he associates most vividly with that ruinous day of his confrontation with Lars—flares inside him. It clashes with Newton’s brisk venture into nibbling at the breakfast, with the sickly sweet scent of brioches and coffee pervading the air. Hermann’s chest seems so tight that he has trouble breathing. 

‘Coffee,’ is what he manages at last, voice raspy with disuse and making him sound like a life-old opiate addict with withered lungs. He moves his unsteady hands towards the copper pot, trying to contain himself and rein in the dreadful feeling continuously expanding inside this chest, the chant of _this is wrong, this is false and undeserved, this is illusory._

_This will come to an end. Will be ruined._

So he pours the espresso shot in rapt concentration, tuning out Newton’s chirpy chatter, staring at his own pale hands and willing them not to tremble. He tries—once again—to order his thoughts into that neutral bland scientific detachment, futilely so, given that mere inhaling hurts, deeply—and ah, and what can he _do_.

Newt keeps _talking_.

Hermann watches the liquid drip steadily into the rounded cup.Newton’s voice sounds like a recording. The stifling ache doesn’t dwindle: he cannot bring himself to either perceive the lulling meek morning _or_ remember any of the hope of the previous evening: in the—harsh, revealing—daylight, it seems like a stinging delusion. 

Then, ‘You’re awful quiet today, Hermann,’ says Newton, and Hermann perceives belatedly that his companion is watching him studiously through narrowed eyes.

He repositions his bad leg again, simultaneously fixing the collar of his bathrobe so he feels marginally less exposed. ‘Yes, I suppose—forgive me, Newton, the travel must have worn me down. Nothing to fret about.’ 

‘No?’ Newton says, softly. His eyes are full of something Hermann doesn’t trust himself to reliably name. ‘Are you sure?’

Something about the hesitance with which he poses the question throws Hermann off. He stiffens even more, suddenly uneasy, fitful.

‘What is it that you’re suggesting, Newton?’ he asks, tersely.

Newt licks his lips from powdered sugar and shifts in his seat. ‘You are _certain_ it has nothing to do with the way I—’

‘I am quite positive,’ Hermann interrupts, looking down and feeling his face colour, chagrined, ‘that you needn’t concern yourself with my—’

‘Can you hear it?’ Newt says suddenly, talking over him.

Hermann blinks. ‘I beg your—’

‘Shh. Listen,’ Newt whispers, raising a hand and motioning with it as though he wanted to touch Hermann’s mouth. ‘Can you hear it?’

And Hermann _can_ : one of the gondolieri has picked up a wistful tune in Italian, his solemn tenor drifting closer with each motion of the oar. There’s something about the tune that gives Hermann pause—it is reminiscent of something he has heard before, on the tinny monstrosity of Newton’s laboratory gramophone.

‘My mother,’ Newt says dazedly, staring at the window as though entranced, ‘used to perform it in Vienna when she met my father. So I’ve heard, at least. I haven’t—I’ve never once heard her sing but I’ve heard … my father, walking around the house. He’d hum it to himself.’

For a brief moment, Hermann is taken aback by the casual mention of the liaison between Newton’s parents, which—as most such things—tended to be kept unmentioned. Before he can craft a reply that would not seem too invasive, Newt begins humming.

The humming gradually turns into a singing as he rises to his feet, drifts closer to the window and starts murmuring words: a familiar low pitch that Hermann knows can ascend sharply to the most inconceivably high octaves—and yes, he remembers now: _my mother’s an opera singer,_ Newton slurring, wet-eyed and dizzy on Cabernet in the laboratory, whole eternities earlier, _and I’ve never met her. Outcast since day one._

‘Newton,’ Hermann now finds himself saying, breaking out of his reverie as he realises what is happening and remembers himself, ‘get down here, for God’s sake.’

‘Or what?’ says Newton—swaying in the window with both knees locked against the frail balustrade, only just holding him upright. ‘It’s just water. What do you _think_ would happen if I fell down?’

‘I’d rather we not find out,’ Hermann says tightly.

Newt laughs, ‘I can swim, you know.’ 

Then he licks his lips, casts a distracted lingering glance at the canal before re-focusing on Hermann, and mutters in a low voice, ‘The worst case scenario is _you’d_ have to warm me up tonight.’

Hermann wants to retort but something stops him—something about Newton’s voice, coy, almost … almost _sultry_ , almost insinuating. There’s a surreal quality, undeniably, to the picture before his eyes: Newton, with his tousled hair, with one of his suspenders hanging loosely by the side of his trousers, smirking down at Hermann as though nothing wrong is happening to them, and as though he is—

_Happy_ , Hermann thinks with a constricted throat, almost shocked by his own cynicism, at the incredulity with which he approaches the very thought. _As though he is happy._

It strikes him, then: a feeling of such density, an affection so immovable that not even the anxiety can chase it away. He looks at Newton and sees, with calm conviction, the beginning and end of all his heartsickness. The cause and remedy at once. The equivalent of any idea of happiness Hermann could conceive.

In whichever shape or manner, his presence alone—will _always_ do.

Newton hops off the railing and into the room, extending a hand towards Hermann, ‘I’d like to hear _you_ sing,’ he says. ‘Will you sing to me?’

Hermann huffs, inhaling deeply, rising to his feet and glaring disapprovingly at Newton, ‘I shall _not.’_

And that’s when Newton kisses him.

 

* * *

 

He does it very enthusiastically and with no finesse to talk of: inked hands coming to tug at Hermann’s jaw as Newt leans inward, upward to catch Hermann’s lips in his. He does it decisively, _deliberately_.

It’s a shock of warmth and sensation: Newt’s burning-up hands and wet lips, the scent of his skin and clothes, the slight brush of gristly stubble on Hermann’s cheek when he tilts his head to catch a better angle, manoeuvre and oh—oh, _there—_

With a strangled gasp, Hermann jerks away, almost falling to the floor and catching himself on the chair’s back support in the last moment.

The sun falls heavy through the window, igniting the small specks of dust, laying shadows on the floor. The tips of Newton’s unruly hair are lit up as well, a faint outline for his face. He remains in place—lips parted, eyes half-lidded, face flushed and upturned, still half-leaning towards Hermann.

Hermann’s heart feels like it could burst, heavy and painfully vibrating. He forces himself to breathe.

Trembling all over, he manages to demand, ‘Why—why have you done it.’

‘Because,’ Newt says quietly, a very small smile tugging sheepishly on one fuzzy corner of his mouth, ‘I couldn’t stop thinking about it—for a while.’

Hermann stills. He feels as though the entire world around him freezes, as though holding in a breath.

‘You—what?’

‘All I have said about why I came with you,’ Newt says hoarsely, almost incoherently, eyes searching Hermann’s face with a newfound urgence. He leans closer, slightly, seamlessly. ‘It wasn’t … quite right. It was the truth, yes. But it was not the _whole_ truth—and I am going to be, I am going to be _honest_ with you. Is that right? Because we need to be honest with each other. Entirely. As you’ve said.’

‘I—’ Hermann blinks. _‘What?’_

Newt licks his lips, eyes downcast. He smiles at the floor, sheepishly. Doesn’t move away.

‘I did follow you because I think it is disgusting and unjust how they treated you. For something so … human as kissing another person. And I did it also because—because in the end, I couldn’t stop thinking about how you maybe wouldn’t be averse to the thought of doing that to me. With me. Or _me to you_. It—suddenly it occurred to me that perhaps it wasn’t just a drunken fluke, that thing that almost happened, and maybe if I hadn’t panicked, something would—something _would_ have happened. Something … significant.’

Hermann looks down, colour rising in his cheeks. He says, very quietly, ‘I would—I would _not_ have persevered, not when you did not share my—’

‘I didn’t?’ Newt cuts him off, and lets out a startled breathless laugh that verges on hysterical, loud and reverberating around the room. ‘I _didn’t?’_

All Hermann can do is wait in silence, desperate heart struggling in his chest. His breath catches.

Newt licks his lips. _‘_ I … I suddenly realised how much I want to touch you. All the time. I want to—and it’s been there the _entire time_ , Hermann, that wanting, and I never once asked myself _why_. All that scientific admiration nonsense, that … epistolary companion, kindred goddamned _spirit_. _Bullshit_. I read your first uptight letter and I was done in. I saw you walk into the laboratory, five years ago, all stiff and proper and _insufferable_ , never once even _smiling_ at me, and that was the end of it: I was done in. You ruined me for anything else. And, silently, I just … kept at it. I was frustrated with myself for it. I was being weird, I was being _unprofessional_.’

‘But—’ Hermann tries, shaking his head stubbornly and desperately trying to still his heart and school himself back into any sort of composure, ‘but no, surely not, Newton, you have never—’

‘No, it … it wasn’t like with you,’ Newt blurts out, swallowing. ‘I didn’t … I didn’t _know_. Not really. I ran after you without ever asking myself why I felt I _had_  to.But it was—that moment on the train, after all those dreadful words, all the—when suddenly you were there, absolutely _devastated_ and saying that I could never love you. That was the most frightening moment of it all, Hermann because it … it finally made sense. It was as though I saw the light, and it was … much too bright to handle. Suddenly everything I tried to keep silent had a _name_ and—and _Hermann,_ I was … Hermann, I was so _overwhelmed_.’

Newt closes his eyes. ‘It was literally too much to take, too much too soon. Fuck, I—I couldn’t even make sense of my own feelings, and then there you were, saying that _you_ —and I just, I panicked. Man, I handled this in, like … the worst way possible, I know.’

‘No,’ Hermann tries to speak, still barely audible, ‘no, you didn’t—not the worst way—no, you were _never_ —’

‘No, listen to me. I’m not finished,’ Newt presses, reaching out to tentatively touch Hermann’s shoulder—and for the first time Hermann realises just how overcome with emotion Newton _is_ , hand trembling through the bathrobe, against his skin. 

‘What I am trying to say—is that there has never been any way in hell in which I could have let you go. You have said you have feelings for me, but you have—you have n _o idea_ how many feelings _I_ have for you. I feel like my heart could burst. I—good God, does it make me a vile to be happy about this? _Does_ it?’

He laughs, again, breathlessly. ‘It makes no sense, does it? But I am. Happy. I haven’t felt like that ever before, does it make me—I want to _touch_ you. This isn’t new. This just … this just has a name now. A name in my head, the only thing that’s new about it. _I love you_ , and it’s a good thing. I don’t think it is vile. How I want to—to be with you. Share a lab, a … a flat, a bed, a … a shoddy damp attic, it hardly matters what. A life. I don’t know how else to say it, I … I want you to stay with me and I want us to grow old and cranky, yelling over test tubes, throwing chalk and guts all over the place. I want you to tell me you love me again.’ 

So Hermann does.

 

* * *

 

_** I dream’d in a dream I saw a city invincible to the attacks of the whole of the rest of the earth. ** _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of the many artistic liberties I’ve taken with this story is the way I’ve depicted the 1900s railway. There was, indeed, an Orient Express merrily coursing from Paris to as far as Istanbul since 1880s, but the Simplon-Orient-Express reaching Venice wouldn’t start coursing until 1919, which is some 20-25 years (more or less, as I’m not very keen on setting a *specific* date for this story) too late in regards to this Hermann and Newt’s timeline. 
> 
> OH WELL.
> 
> (To be fair, though, I am also vaguely implying that Newt and Hermann are virtually Maria Skłodowska and Pierre Curie as they tinker happily with radiation so … heh. I love fiction.)
> 
>  
> 
> __  
> **(This part of the A/N is quite depressing so feel free to skip it)**  
>   
> 
> Even as I decided on writing something the theme of which will, to a big extent, be repression, I knew I just couldn’t write a WWII AU without getting absolutely and utterly depressed. Given that Hermann is a Jewish man with a physical disability, I would literally rather die that do it to myself (or the people reading it.) So. I picked late 1800s/early 1900s because sprouting science — and, well, I’m vaguely fascinated by that period while it doesn’t make me want to rip my ribs out. 
> 
>  
> 
> _**(Ok, u good now.)**_
> 
>  
> 
> I chose Venice specifically because:  
> a) i love it, i miss it, one of my friends recently visited and and i'm very jealous  
> b) as far as my research shows, Italy legalised homosexuality in 1889 and didn’t fuck up again until Mussolini, which gives Newt and Hermann a fair 30-35 years of relative peace of mind.
> 
> It’s good. They’re happy there. After working some more on Science, Newt takes to restoring paintings with his chemicals and Hermann becomes an architect. They acquire a nicer little flat overlooking Canale Grande. Newt sings along with the gondolieri and becomes infamous for arguing in bad Italian with all the sellers in all the fruit markets (who is louder, Newt or today’s market seller trying to give him a vaguely rotten tomato? The world may never know.) Hermann wears big sunhats ‘cause he doesn’t like sunlight and takes his coffee in small local coffeeshops.  
> It’s GOOD.
> 
> All of the poetry excerpts incorporated here are drawn from Whitman’s Calamus poems from Leaves of Grass. They are speculated—or, put differently, strongly suspected—to be about a male romantic interest, despite Whitman’s claims otherwise.
> 
> Seemed fitting. 
> 
>  
> 
> **(May I just say that I will give you my lasting devotion if, should you enjoy it, you'll endeavour to leave a review and maybe tell me what struck your fancy, O dear Reader?)**


	3. intricate rituals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘I’ve got something for you,’ Newt says suddenly, his voice strangely hoarse, breaking their companionable silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went hard with this and sure, I did NOT have to, but I think I wanted to. 
> 
> A ridiculous amount of research—for which I luckily had time because of my really nice convenient break from flatmates and studying—went into this story, most of which will never see the light of day. It is, as most such anecdotes, largely irrelevant but I’d like to let it be known that I spend half an hour trying to come up with a reason to have Hermann go into Galleria dell’Accademia to stare at Titian’s harrowing last painting before realising that there is literally no reason for him to go there that would pertain to the plot. I spent even more time researching operatic aria lyrics, sailor shanties, gondola parts, churches near the goddamned Giudecca where I located Newt and Hermann’s lousy flat, exact dating of Venetian glass business prospering, English china porcelain and a _certain shop in Florence_ (hehe). The research on Italian translations (don’t trust google translate, kids) was welcomed and nice because I need to branch out with languages. 
> 
> I dedicate this chapter to Lindo who said “Hey you might enjoy Henry James” and thus made me pick up the one and only novella Henry James located in Venice, _The Aspern Papers_. I dedicate it to Holo and Wen as well, for being lovely and enduring my whining throughout the writing process.
> 
> All in all, the result of this story continues to be summarised thus:
> 
> _I wish I was in Venice._

 

_It’s a dream_ , Hermann thinks calmly, one hand thrown over the oaken side of the gondola, facing the ferro that seems to seamlessly cut through the water. Next to him, half-crouched and fiddling with the rim of a shabby straw-hat, there is Newton. The wind is carding through the tips of his sun-blanched hair. Eyelashes cast a frail shadow onto his freckled cheeks. He seems lost in thought.

_Dreams, even at the most blissful and illusory, all have their tell-tale signs of incoming collapse._

 

* * *

**_Need I that you exist and show yourself any more than in these songs._ **

 

Ranger Becket’s visitation has found him solitary in their lodgings, hunched over his scant apothecary table in relieving shadow of closed-up shutters in an attempt to correct the last equations made prior to his banishment from London.The tabletop is scattered with intricate hand-drawn sketches of models and a small array of laurel leaves and wildflowers Newton had brought from the market a while ago, mumbling inarticulately of his unwillingness to let them _go to waste._ Remarking upon the futility of keeping cut flowers designed to wither in the household, Hermann has nevertheless installed the bundle in a glass jar adjacent to his inkpot, seeking to appease the suddenly-sullen Newton somewhat.

Irate, he evaluates own carelessness of method, spurred on by cocksure certainty he would be granted an opportunity for to revision in timely manner, in the dim haven of his own laboratory. And yet he _has_ no laboratory to speak of, not for the time being—he has been notified, admittedly, that a space is being arranged for them in the halls of Ca Foscari, but the date of the endeavour’s completion remains unclear. 

For now, he must settle for stealing sparse hours of moderate peace of mind—when either the heat of day or cold of night _relent_ and Newton sets out for his daily prowl of the local pharmacies and markets, assembling his array of ‘samples’—and hope for his erstwhile clarity of mind to pierce through the fog of weariness and nerves.

It would not, strictly, be truthful to say that Hermann is _unhappy._

Far from it, though lacking security and comforts he has grown used to in England, he sometimes cannot conceive of the magnitude of his own fortune. _For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction_ , Hermann thinks. And for every trying moment, there comes an interval of tranquillity which strikes him with its undeserved kindness. One day he may despair over his negligence leading not one but two lives to ruin—the next, he’ll find himself at Florian’s in the Piazzetta, listening to Newton’s animated soliloquy regarding the progress of works on the electrocardiograph in Leiden—and marvelling at how insanely, frighteningly fortunate he is to have his _ruin_ take such miraculous shape. 

How thoroughly _undeserving_ of it he is. 

‘Doctor Gottlieb,’ Ranger Becket—tall and broad, with a jarringly gentle face—greets him, bowing slightly as not to hit his head on the low ceiling. He extends a hand towards Hermann. ‘I am glad to see you in good health.’

As often in these situations, Hermann cannot trust himself to correctly hazard at whether he is being mocked or sympathised with. The attempt made by the PPDC headquarters, of ascribing his sudden leave to weakness of health seems both _ironic_ and infirm enough to easily see through. Someone is singing outside, the volume of a jaunty irreverent English song increasing with each passing moment. _‘Oh, give us some time to blow the man down. All hands—’_

Reaching for the cane hung upon one of the shutter wings, Hermann gathers himself from his makeshift desktop and, straightening to conceal his typical hunch, nods sharply. ‘Ranger Becket. Likewise.’

‘I hope both the new workstation and the dig will suit your expectations,’ Becket says slowly, eyes fixed resolutely upon Hermann, as though set not to intrude upon the infinitesimal privacy of the quarters surrounding them. ‘I am aware it is far from what you are used to, both in terms of topic of study and quality of the equipment available.’

‘I am positive we shall be able to make good use of whatever we are given,’ Hermann asserts, with a curt nod of the head.

‘ _That_ I do not doubt,’ Becket responds, inclining his head lightly. ‘I would loathe it for you to grow disillusioned with our outpost, however. We strive to welcome both you and Doctor Geiszler with _utmost_ hospitality—you are, as we have been assured by Marshall Hansen, both assets of invaluable quality in terms of brainpower.’

_‘Then we’ll blow the man up. And we’ll blow the man down!’_

‘Alas,’ Hermann says, quietly, looking down. A shadow of unease steals away through his mind, convulsing he fingers curled around the cane handle. _‘Far_ be it from me not to be grateful. Towards anyone involved, _all_ I can extend is gratitude. As you must be aware of.’

At this subtle innuendo—still remaining within the bounds of plausible deniability, as Hermann is well aware—Becket’s expression shifts, momentarily, from its plain cordiality into something softer and more quizzical. For a moment, Hermann considers whether he hasn’t made a mistake.

‘Doctor Gottlieb,’ Becket says at length, in a lower tone, confirming Hermann’s suspicions of his cover story’s illusoriness and enabling him to grow tense. ‘You have nothing to fea—’

_‘Go way, WAY, BLOW THE MAN DOWN.’_

‘Excuse me,’ Hermann says through gritted teeth, closing his eyes. ‘For just a _moment_.’

‘Newton, will you be _quiet_?’ he hisses, drawing himself jerkily towards the apothecary table and wrenching open the window. A myriad of sketches fall, trembling, out into the heavy warm air which momentarily shocks the breath out of Hermann.

Very slowly, like a cat leaning up into sunlight, Newton straightens over his cluttered rusty gondola, raises his head and blinks owlishly at Hermann.

‘Oh. Hermann, old man,’ he says mildly, a crooked odd half-smile stretching one corner of his lips upwards. He is holding a coil of rope, apparently intending to fasten the boat to a wooden _palina_. ‘I didn’t know you were _listening_.’

There’s something awful about the way he says it, something concealed from bystanders and hidden deep in the very lilt of tone—something that invokes in Hermann’s memory that improbable first morning in Giudecca, with Newt reclined carelessly against the frail balustrade, saying something innocuous, saying it with such inconceivable and unrealisable _intentions_.

He tenses, perturbed by his body’s involuntary reaction to the remembrance of Newt’s lips stealing the quickest snuck-out way to his lips. A cheated out, _blissful_ moment. Days—ages ago. Worlds entire away from where they seem to have moved since.

Except right now, in another one of the confusing short moments which never come to fruition. Newton in sunlight looks like a smug sleepy cat. Hermann’s hands, newly tingling, convulse on the cane and balustrade, a sharp rush of warmth stealing through his core.

‘Don’t _jest_ ,’ he says tersely, jaw set. There’s an ache in it all that he cannot rationalise or dispose of, deep-sealed and ugly. ‘Come up here and listen to what you are told, for once.’

He straightens and meets Ranger Becket’s carefully neutral expression.

‘You must excuse him,’ Hermann says, in deep annoyance, _‘this_ is my research partner, Doctor Geiszler. He is—he’s an aspiring apostle of the gondoliers, it seems. He _loves_ the canals.’

 

* * *

**_The way is suspicious, the result uncertain, perhaps destructive,_ **

 

Perhaps it’s the stark contrast between her tenants’ temperaments that has led Signora Monica—the landlady—to first assign him and Newton a joint label of _forrestieri_ and, subsequently, the respective identities of _l’Americano_ for Newton and _il tranquillo Tedesco_ for Hermann, vaguely perplexed on the account of his flawless English accent.

(‘Alas, what does it mean?’ he’s quizzed Newton at first, furtively, too puzzled be anything but suspicious.

Newton has responded with a long, searching look, before muttering, ‘Means the stick up your ass is even _more_ visible than you’d care to assume, Hermann.’

‘You are a _menace_ ,’ Hermann has said in distaste, wrenching himself away.)

It has taken a strained suspicious while but the Signora has gradually assumed a more personal approach, calling Hermann _Ermanno_ with an odd cantabile stress on the last syllable, and frequently reaching up to pat his cheek and plaintively lament, ‘Quanto è magro ! Devi mangiare, sei troppo magro.’

‘Yes he is,’ Newton—curiously, remaining simply her _Mi Americano,_ usually accentuated with a reproachful wagging of the a finger—would croon from his perpetual spot of residence in the kitchen corner, grinning at the withering look earned from Hermann. ‘Skin and bones, that one. Get’s so _cold_ at nights, the poor thing.’

Something in it all stings, though Hermann can neither voice or explain it.

 

* * *

**_The flush of the known universe is in him,_ **

 

The workstation is located in the sizzling Torcello, as different from the main islands as Hermann could conceive.The change in climate is shocking; blinded by the brilliant light and strangled by the oppressively dense air of the early afternoon, Hermann stands acutely still, shallowly breathing. 

It is in these moments of unavoidable debilitating disorientation that he perceives an acute new aspect to his constraining physicality: the temperamental sways of heat and humidity prove quite unforgiving on his battered organism. 

Newt is standing a couple of yards further, one leg propped up on a stone, one elbow resting against it. He is eating a small ripe-looking fruit—a _fig_ , Hermann has been told, though he’d never seen one looking like this before—he’d snatched from a fruit market barge moored at the docks. He licks his fingers clean from the juice.

His clothes have changed: apparently suffocated with his usual mismatched frocks, he tends to bypass layered vests and jackets altogether, rolling his sleeves up over his elbows and untucking his collar from a tie or cravat. Presently, he is clad in a garish pair of overalls, cuffs of which are folded over heavy boots. Aside from making him appear like a workman rather than the gentleman academic he had attempted to impersonate back in England, it makes Newton _fit_ , curiously, with his surroundings.

Hermann, on his part, has hardly adjusted, buttoning his clothes as fastidiously as ever, allowing naught but a sunhat—gifted to him forcibly by Newton who insisted _he’d rather Hermann didn’t die of a stroke_ —to be altered in his appearance. 

Something inside him tugs painfully.

As though becoming aware of the scrutiny, Newton catches Hermann’s eyes. Licking his lips clean from the sticky juice and never breaking eye contact, he fishes in the pocket of his overalls, and procures another fig. He tosses it in the air, motioning at Hermann with a sharp flick of his head.

_‘Do you want …?_ ’ Newton mouths.

Hermann bristles, averting his eyes and setting his jaw as he returns his attention fully to the dig Ranger Becket.

The young man’s words, however, startle him. ‘I hope doctors will be joining us for dinner today.’

‘Dinner?’ Hermann repeats, surprised. After agreeing to paying a visit to the workstation and dig—which he theorises to be primarily _Newton’s_ new domain and workspace—he’s envisioned something in the way of a delirious doze, shut away in the dim of their quarters, long enough to pass the hours of harshest heat and rise in a haze to either eat a scarce meal or consider a short walk in the decaying, kinder air of nightfall, before the dampness sets.

Oblivious to Hermann’s bewilderment, Becket continues, evenly. ‘Signora Monica has been most delighted to have both of you accept an invitation, so rare an event it seems. I was glad to hear of it too.’

‘The pleasure is ours,’ Newton says brightly—then, sensing at last that there is more to Hermann’s newly stiffened posture than it seems, he adds, _‘Surely_ I have told you.’

‘Alas, I believe you must have forgotten,’ Hermann enunciates slowly, his jaw set. The persistent sunlight makes it difficult not squint; inhaling slowly to regain composure, Hermann attempts to focus on the measured glide of the gondolas through the yielding water, the arrhythmical farrago of noises, voices and cries rustling around him.

‘I’d loathe to be an inconvenience,’ he adds sharply, addressing Becket. ‘And I am— _quite_ afraid the gravity of my work won’t allow me to abandon it on a whim, no matter how gracious the company.’

‘Twaddle,’ Newton says, tossing his fig in the air. Hermann freezes. ‘ _I_ shan’t allow you to become a hermit in this day and age, no matter your conviction to do just so. Signor Becket, lead the way—I believe there’s one more place you were meant to show us.’

He motions to Becket who nods and starts, half-outlined by the ancient byzantine cathedral, half by the rustle of tall grass, towards the docks.

 

* * *

**_Scorn becomes him well, and appetite and defiance become him well,_ **

 

 _L’Americano_ has quickly gained himself something of a reputation: the infamous scientist renting quarters from Signora Monica, as cherished by ‘the society’ as he is despised by the local fruit-merchants with whom he gets into shrill and passionate arguments over pricing.

_Lovely_ , Hermann has heard one of the American _forrestieri_ at the Piazzetta, a young American girl, say in delight after witnessing Newton tip his sunhat and serve her espresso in lieu of the waiter. _Perfectly lovely!_

_L’Americano_ , loud, lovely, deucedly sociable. _L’Americano_ , Newton.

He learns Italian, mostly by way of catching wayward phrases from the local folk and repeating them softly to himself until they seem to become mere strings of repetitive sound, off-tune melodies without meaning.

He sings. To himself, absentmindedly, walking and cooking, he mingles disjointed stanzas of operatic sections with gaudy sailor shanties. In the morning and in the evening, the last and first thing Hermann seems to hear are these songs, spilling into one another in a chain of vibrating connections possible to rekindle at any time. 

He buys the second-hand gondola from a grim-looking old merchant that speaks only heavily dialectic mother tongue, and falls into the filthy water thrice before he gains any sense of stability while rowing. He walks like he welcomes the treacherous ground beneath his feet, raises his face to welcome the warm beams of the persistent light and stretches, raising his arms in the air, as though to ascend and leave the ground behind.

He seems to be sinking into this new reality seamlessly, as though having always belonged there, hazy sunlight and language sinking into _him—_ making him appear softer, brighter, brimming of life.

And Hermann—Hermann resumes his perpetual _withdrawal_ , blinking in the sun and averting his eyes from the women raising their laughing faces at Newton in the Piazetta, returning to a his handwritten equations. Hermann feels cold in the sun. 

 

* * *

**_Enough! enough! enough! Somehow I have been stunn’d. Stand back!_ **

 

Suddenly lightheaded, Hermann feels the whole world elude him. 

Newton catches him, leaping closer just in time as though he’s been watching Hermann for cues of weakness the entire time—strong arm braced under his elbow, burning-up skin against Hermann’s stiff clothed limbs. He holds him up.

‘Are you alright?’ Newton demands and the genuine concern of his tone—hushed, once again proving of the thoughtful concessions he makes on account of Hermann’s privacy and unwillingness to be witnessed at his weakest—seems newly unendurable.

‘No,’ Hermann says listlessly, gripping his cane and attempting to draw away from Newton and support himself on his own. ‘I’m afraid I’ll—need to _retire_ for today. I wish you’d—’

But he cuts himself off, leaving the accusation unfinished. Once again, he convinces himself of Newton’s actions being devoid of malignancy.

Something sparks up in Newton’s greenish eyes, something almost _guilty_.

‘Then I’ll come with you,’ he proposes, and the strain with which he tries to sound casual is _unendurable_ , too.

‘ _No_ , you shall not,’ Hermann retorts, looking away. ‘I see no way of us proceeding with the project in a timely manner unless you should stay and supervise. Giacomo will take me.’

Newton lets go of his arm. An undecipherable blank expression returns, settling on his face along with a wan narrowing of the eyes. Hermann perceives the coldness of his withdrawal near-physically, despite the overwhelming heat around them. He leans heavily on his cane, willing his face not to betray him.

‘I hope I’ll find you in good health at dinner, then,’ Newton says, evenly. He fixes Hermann with a penetrating stare for a second longer—long enough to think, ah, _guess at it, see through it, see that I am trying_ —then turns and walks away, following Ranger Becket.

 

* * *

**_Give me a little time beyond my cuff ’d head, slumbers, dreams,_ **

**_gaping,_ **

 

It would not, _strictly_ , be truthful to say that Hermann is unhappy _._

But perhaps, for a brief moment, he’d dared hoped for his new life to become something different—and perhaps this rare moment of self-indulgent vulnerability impaired his ability to remain as acutely grateful for what he is given as he ought.

After that distant morning when Newton had kissed him, erratically confessing his swarm of emotions, the matter of their relationship progressing into further intimacy seemed to acquire an improbable (almost intoxicating) plausibility. But then everything came to an unexpected halt—too shaken still, he now suspects, by the rekindling of dormant doubts and fears, Hermann grew convinced of the inevitability of erring, of breaking their companionship beyond repair, as he was _wont_ to. By midday he all but reversed into his customary state of denial, avoiding Newton’s eyes and shying away from touches. By night, they were _both_ too shy and uncertain with each other to bring up the subject alone. 

A month passed, then, and with each agonising hour, Hermann despises himself more for having let go. With each hour he is grateful he has managed to be sensible—sensible enough to preserve a relationship with Newton at all.

They live together, after all, share daily errands and routines, supporting each other as best they can. In some ways, he is happier than he’s ever been. In some ways, never in his entire life has he felt this strangled. 

 

* * *

**_... I discover myself on the verge of a usual mistake._ **

 

Having climbed out of Giacomo’s gondola and heaved himself upstairs, Hermann shuts the door to their quarters and lets out a sigh. For a moment, he stands still, forehead pressed against the wood, merely breathing.

Then, forcing himself to move, Hermann slowly unbuttons his coat and vest, undoes the cuffs and unties the cravat, tossing all of the garments with trembling hands onto his chair. Then, dizzy still, he drags himself towards the bed and reclines on the unmade sheets with another sigh.

Almost unconsciously, he draws himself to Newton’s side of the bed, turning his face into the pillow and inhaling. He allows the distant familiar scent to settle him, momentarily, in a familiar ache of longing. 

_(‘Then I’ll come with you.’)_

Here is the other issue, the one Hermann is sometimes too ashamed to address even in his thoughts. 

At nightfall, they used to both enter an odd liminal space of no questions, no unbearable clarity that daylight provided. Newton has been sleeping in Hermann’s bed and _holding_ him, arms snuck around his chest, face pressed into the back of Hermann’s neck or between his shoulder blades. It seemed natural, in some irrational way which Hermann could not help but find hysterically illogical in the light of day. But this, perhaps, _this_ _exactly,_ is what he’d craved the most, the most childishly and achingly: to be _held_. 

To grant him this seems to have been an unspoken mutual decision of half-finished movements and short tense silences punctuating the lulling inertia of their blithe day by day pretending. But there’s not—they have not—

It should have been talked about. It _must_ be talked about, are they to go on in any manner at all.

But Hermann could not bring himself to address it. Instead they have dawdled, because of his indecision—he _thinks_ —because they needed to be careful—he tries to believe. Because he couldn’t dare accept this reality too early lest its proved a lie. Because he was frightened. Because he would have to admit what he wanted—and that, he _cannot_.

And now, this has come to an end, too. Newton wouldn’t touch him anymore, not for the past several nights, when he’s slept curled up at the edge of the bed, facing away from Hermann. Newton would disappear for hours during the day, disappear for _days_ —just once—coming back haggard and elusive, without disclosing where he’d been; Newton would scribble taunting corrections on Hermann’s imprecise drawings and make stinging jokes that hurt more than it should be feasible.

_I have driven him away_ , Hermann thinks dully, watching the light trickling in a wan beam through the shutters as he lays with his face half-buried in the pillow. _He’s grown tired. Impatient._

He acknowledges, in quiet uninterrupted sadness, that the _best_ he can do for Newton—is let go. But he cannot.

_Maybe_ , a traitorous soft little voice in Hermann’s mind whispers, _it would be easy._

He closes his eyes, reliving the the contrast of their skin in Torcello, when they’ve been forced a breath away. He can see Newton’s lips, mouthing, _‘Do you want …?’_

Does he want? Oh, he wants. He is _accustomed_ to wanting _._ He is accustomed to directing all his will to turn outwards, directing his thoughts outside own terrible mind, stifling and enduring. And he cannot bear the thought of initiating anything, cannot bear the deeply ingrainedaccompanying echo of accusation, of fault found and guilt proved.

‘Newton, go, go away,’ Hermann thinks, or whispers, into his pillow. ‘I’m sick.’

And yet there he would be, in rare moments still, smiling and open-hearted, seemingly meeting Hermann halfway, seemingly reaching out—but never explicitly enough to take for granted.

‘I can’t,’ Hermann whispers, agonised. ‘Go. Go, but _God_ —don’t make me _ask_ you.’

Suddenly unable to withstand his own thinking, Hermann leaps from the bed, snatches his cane from the bedpost and heads towards the door.

 

* * *

**_(What is less or more than a touch?)_ **

**_Logic and sermons never convince,_ **

 

Submerging his hands in water, Hermann looks out of the window, into the surprisingly lush uncoordinated garden below. He has rolled up his shirtsleeves carefully lest he wets them, and let his thoughts stray into an easier pattern of obligation and routine. He thinks it behoves him to _help_ , in meagre repayment for the kindness offered without a cloud of judgement—especially when their arrangement is so frail, so vulnerable to taunt and suspicion. 

He revisits his memory Signora Monica’s visit, with her eyes skimming upon Newton’s sagged loveseat, gifted to them by the neighbours—so obviously untouched and never slept on, cluttered with cogs and spare parts for the rebuilt chemical apparatuses—and then moving on, brightly, to Hermann’s drawn, expectant face.

‘Hai freddo la notte?’ she has said at last, half-smiling, and then, as though to herself. ‘ Sei troppo magro. Troppo magro! _’_

_Are you cold at night?_ Hermann closes his eyes, the warm flippant question turned mocking and malignant in his head. 

Someone leans in close and whispers, ‘You were supposed to _rest_.’ 

Newton catches the blue-painted porcelain plate Hermann drops mid-air, and snickers at his hunted expression. He’s close enough for Hermann to notice a fresh scattering of freckles on the bridge of his nose.

‘Calm down,’ he mutters. ‘Who’d you think it was? Sir Pentecost himself coming all the way from London to scold you for not wiping the plates properly? Now, do not look so _offended_ , I know how infatuated you were with him.’

‘Newton,’ Hermann hisses, scandalised, earlier agitation morphing into annoyance. ‘Have you no filter at all?’

Newt shrugs, growing quiet for a moment and blinking at the plate Hermann has picked up to wipe with a distant expression. ‘Maybe not,’ he mutters.

Reluctantly looking over, Hermann registers a change in Newton since the afternoon: he is wearing a proper shirt, vest and trousers, seems freshly groomed. There’s some filmsy new scent to him, something vaguely sweet, that Hermann can’t place.

‘I can see something is wrong,’ Newton says suddenly, his voice bright and even, dragging Hermann sharply back to reality.‘And I can _see_ you’re avoiding me. I’m not a fool, Hermann.’

_I am_ , Hermann thinks fatuously.

‘You are mistaken,’ he says instead, just as evenly, continuing with the plate.

Newt touches his wrist, and all thought grinds to a halt. Hermann tenses painfully.

After a moment, Newt withdraws his hand, somewhat stiffened as well. ‘I wish—’ he says, clumsily. ‘I merely wished you _talked_ to me more.’

Hermann blinks. Squares his shoulders. ‘We talk all the time, Newton.’

‘Talk about what’s— _bothering_ you, idiot. I wish I could—’

Hermann studies his plate mutely, unwilling to budge. He doesn’t _quite_ trust himself to take the bait, not when Newton seems so reluctant to be upfront as well.

Finally, Newt says, with disarming honesty, ‘I wish you smiled more. Sometimes—I can’t help but think this is—that this really is a _life sentence_ to you, like you’ve said, and that all I do is make it worse. It’s killing me. Just—tell me if I do something wrong—’

_Oh_ , Hermann thinks, his throat suddenly tight. _If only you knew how wrong you are._

‘Newton. It is not like that at all,’ he says, very quietly, but unable to conceal a slight tremor in his voice. ‘Quite the opposite. I should be so—grateful. For you. I _am_.’

Newt is hardly fooled. ‘Then what _is_ troubling you?’

‘I—’ Hermann blurts, then pauses. He swallows, shame constricting his throat even more so as to strangle sound. There seems not to be a way of eluding the question that wouldn’t alert Newton to his dishonesty; and indeed has _dishonesty_ not been the one thing he’d vowed to renounce? But, ah, the knowledge of it makes none of it easier.

‘Lately you wouldn’t—at night. _Ah_.’

Knowing himself too ashamed to sustain his gaze but determined not to prove weak, Hermann glances furtively to his side: Newton is frowning, seemingly confused. At sight of Hermann’s drawn expression, however, his face clears.

All of the sudden, he tugs Hermann forward by one elbow and pulls him into a loose-armed warm embrace. ‘You mean—‘ Newt says, very quietly. ‘This?’

Hermann fights the sudden pitiful impulse to duck his head and inhale the juncture of Newt’s collar and neck, instead leaning slightly away and blinking to compose himself. It wouldn’t _do_ to behave as such in broad daylight.

‘I—yes,’ he says stiffly, chagrined at how frail and childish his trembling voice sounds to his own ears. ‘I simply wondered—oh, it’s no matter. Forget it—I wish I hadn’t spoken.’

He cuts off, too embarrassed to proceed, and busies his suddenly shaking hands with the porcelain, trying to regain his cool affect. 

Newt interrupts once again, plucking the dish from Hermann’s futile hands and setting it brusquely aside.

‘Careful, that is an original Spode,’ Hermann says, in spite of himself, even as he registers Newton’s hands closing upon his, holding him in place.

‘Careful, I don’t give a _damn_ ,’ Newton retorts. He is staring so intently at Hermann’s face that Hermann cannot meet his eyes, instead looking to his right—and raising his chin as he does so, as though to appear steadier, shield himself from the expected blow.

‘I only didn’t—because of the heat,’ he hears Newton’s voice, slow and quiet. ‘Because the nights have been so feverish, I thought I’d surely do you more harm if I tried to be clingy. I never meant to—’ he trails off.

Hermann feels his cheeks burn. He looks down, minutely, gazing out of the window and into the flower-garden in the patio. ‘Newton, I—forget it. It’s foolish of me to speak of. Do not concern yourself—let’s not speak about it. Let’s not— _speak_.’

Perhaps his desperation for terminating the conversation is as pitifully transparent as Hermann fears, because Newton’s resulting silence is merely momentary. Soon enough he ventures, punctuating it with a slight squeeze to Hermann’s hands. ‘Did you _want_ me to?’

And, oh, how _this_ hurts. It is irrational—he knows Newt carries no ill will, definitely not intentionally, and yet it hurts perhaps _more_ even than his customary teasing.

‘Do not _mock_ me,’ Hermann snaps, wrenching his hands away and fixing his eyes, which suddenly sting, ahead. He swallows. This is irrational, he knows. This has been so very foolish to hope for from the start. He despises himself for ever daring.

‘I’m not,’ Newt says, leaning rapidly forward and touching Hermann’s arm. He sounds sober, earnest, but Hermann won’t meet his eyes, merely stiffening further. ‘I’m asking because I can’t _tell_.’

‘What is there to _tell_?’ Hermann demands, quiet and vicious.

‘I can’t tell what I am allowed,’ Newt supplies, meeker now. An odd nervous seriousness softens his words and when Hermann turns, still frowning, he is thrown off by the genuine concern in Newton’s expression. Apparently sensing he has Hermann attention, he rushes his speech, ‘I can’t tell if _this,_ if what I do, is even _remotely_ close to being what you need. What you— _want_. You flinch, you pull away from me, each time I seem to draw marginally closer.’ 

His voice hardens into something strained and serious. ‘I do not want you to settle, Hermann—not for something you think you might _owe_ me.’

Hermann stares. Wide eyed, with blood humming low and stunning in his ears, he attempts to fathom his thoughts into any communicable order. Of anything, anything at all Newton could have said, he’d never expect _this_.

But Newton seems so serious, and Newton suddenly seems _nervous_. To think himself an inspiration of any sort of anxiety on his part dizzies and sickens Hermann.

‘This is— _Newton_ ,’ he whispers at last, barely remembering how to speak, shoulders sagging as part of his tension relents. ‘By Jove. Settle—oh, this is nonsensical.’

‘ _You_ are nonsensical,’ Newt bites back, and Hermann looks up sharply, startled by the illogical note of amusement in his voice. Sure enough, Newton is smiling. 

‘Are you all right _now_?’ he asks, inconsequentially. ‘Do you feel better? The heat has been so dreadful _today_.’

‘I am—puzzled,’ Hermann says uncertainly, suddenly acutely confused. He feels—well, _dizzy_ still, weak-headed from the sun-heavy air that has assaulted him earlier, from the unexpected curvature of Newton’s response. ‘I seem to have, once again, proved a fool.’

‘No,’ Newton says.

In a movement smooth and shocking, he leans in and kisses his cheek. Hermann stiffens.

In—why, _public_ , in plain sight, mere seconds away from someone walking into the small sunlit kitchen, and for what reason! To think something as pitiful as Hermann’s fumbling has inspired this, to think how rapid his heart is as it struggles now—

‘You needn’t be afraid,’ Newt tells him, running his thumb past Hermann’s cheekbone, past the spot his lips just touched. ‘There’s nothing of a _fool_ in you.’

He then withdraws, stepping away from Hermann and folding his hands behind him. He seems unperturbed, unaffected by any of his own audacity or Hermann’s silent agony.

And yet Hermann cannot do anything to either tear his eyes away from him or move. W _aiting,_ numbly, for something more, something that may not come, that has never come before. 

Not until Newt says, ‘We are expected at eight. You know _I_ don’t care, but I know you do—so do get changed. The stiffest, most proper collar you own. And a nosegay.’

‘All right,’ Hermann assents quietly, feeling lost.

 

* * *

**_You villain touch! what are you doing? my breath is tight in its throat,_ **

 

The table is set in the open air.

As Hermann has made his way down into the patio garden, dusk settled slowly, decaying into the pervasive meekness of early night. The light shimmered and dimmed, smells of wine and flowers seemed to strengthen and overpower the briny scent of the canals. Even from a distance, he could hear a farrago of human sounds: joking, laughter, conversation.

He steps into the garden and is instantly stunned. A myriad of people, each hastily referred to him by Newton who raises his voice over the commotion and gestures wildly: Monica, her loud sister Annella and Annella’s quiet husband Santino, their children Giacomo and Amara, Becket—trailing sheepishly behind his fiancée, a filigree Japanese woman studying physics at Ca Foscari, editing for the Venetian journal _La donna_ and campaigning for women’s education rights in Milan—a rowdy couple of stately Russians introduced as the Kaidanovskys, as well as a collection of neighbours and friends, including several young ladies, out of whom—to Hermann’s silent discontent—seems _particularly_ intrigued by _l’Americano,_ drawing Newton away from Hermann near-instantly and occupying his attention as they are seated.

Her speech is distinctly American, her name is _Alice_ , and she keeps leaning slightly on her elbow and beaming at Newton mid-unremitting chatter—while at the same time casting long, penetrating glances Hermann’s way. Half-convinced his mind is playing tricks on him, Hermann vows to himself to suppress any signs of his increasing dismay. 

If he is being frank with himself, mostly he feels touched, when the deliberation of Newton’s manoeuvre to get them invited becomes apparent—Hermann is treated as a guest of equal importance as all the persons present, included in conversation and curiously recognised, both by name and expertise. Tasting his wine, he is somewhat baffled to realise Newton’s tendency to chatter must not have excluded his existence or the tangential nature of their daily lives. As unsurprising as it should be for two bachelors rooming together, the idea of being the theme and actor of Newton’s stories abashes him. 

This silent merger of embarrassment and contentment is stirred rapidly mid-dessert, and heightened rapidly into a new state of agitation: his suspicions prove, in the end, correct.

‘Are _you_ engaged, Signor Geiszler?’ Alice inquires, flushed face tucked into one open palm as she fixes Newton with a quizzical look.

‘Yes,’ Newton says and Hermann’s heart stutters haltingly as he strains not to choke on his Chianti. ‘I’m afraid I am _quite_ married to my studies.’

Hermann’s heart resumes its trudging pace as he exhales into his glass. The young woman doesn’t seem appeased.

‘You did forsake your _studies_ , however, for the _sake_ of Doctor Gottlieb’s health—have you not?’ she says in a mild voice that could be mistaken for conversational were it not for the sharp glint of her blue eyes. ‘Moved across the Simplon, no less.’

Face burning with something that’s half-shame, half-trepidation, Hermann shifts in his seat—but Newton, once again, seems jarringly unruffled.

‘That I did,’ he says cryptically, smiling at the girl until the corners of his eyes crinkle.

‘What an intimate friendship you must have,’ she continues, lightly, ‘to allow for such careless sacrifices.’ Hermann’s knuckles whiten around the cup. His pulse is quickened, terribly, blood rushing through his temples so as to make is straining heart audible. _Please_ , he thinks, hardly knowing what he is asking for. 

Newton’s smile widens, just so. ‘Quite,’ he says softly.

Hermann inhales, slowly, counting seconds.

‘Lui è fortunato,’ she says after a while, in a broken accent, mirroring the smile.

‘Io sono fortunato,’ Newton says, warmly, and turns his head to stare openly at Hermann—almost as if to wrench a reaction out of him, cause his persisting silence to rupture. Apparently feeling even that not audacious enough, he extends a hand and places it on top of Hermann’s unmoving one.

Momentarily devoid of breath, Hermann meets Newton’s eyes, feeling something vibrating and pulse-rhythmical come to life under his ribs and writhe out, expanding, into the veins and to the very tips of his fingers, which touch the bland unimportant wineglass; which touch the warm skin of _Newton_. 

Hermann’s whole skin is singing. 

‘Sta scherzando,’ he says, with his stilted German accent, enduring only a second more and pulling his hand back. He turns to face the girl. _He is joking._

‘É meglio non scherzare su queste cose,’ Newton shots back, smilingly unblinking. _Better not to joke about these things._

He looks away then, sparing both Hermann and the girl further embarrassment, and aiming a bright innocuous smile at Signora Monica—who seems to be watching them fondly from across the table—instead. Spontaneously, Newt raises his glass to salute her.

Several people cotton on the toast and join in a singsong cheer in multiplied languages—Hermann is squeezed sideways in a hearty embrace from Aleksis Kaidanovsky—which erupts into exclamations once Giacomo spills his red orange juice over Amara’s skirts; and then further commotion as she retaliates with the entire jug. In the flurry of laughter and scolds, Hermann leans back into his chair, feeling slightly overwhelmed, slightly _dazed_ , oddly _happy_. Included, movingly, in something human and communal, that lacks scrutiny or judgement.

He raises his eyes and catches Newton staring at him with a small smile. Without a word, he raises his hand in toast once again—this time, solely towards Hermann.

_Thank you_ , Hermann does not trust himself to say aloud, f _or bringing me here, for doing this for me, for staying, thank you_ —but Newton’s widening smile seems to testify that his expression delivers the message anyway.

 

* * *

**_For him I sing,_ **

**_I raise the present on the past_ **

 

He returns to the quarters slightly wine-softened and happy. He allows himself to be thoughtless, halting himself from overthinking Newton’s peculiar silence persisting all the way home, halting himself from refusing help with the steep staircase, instead accepting the aid of Newton’s steadier arms.

The night is never quiet here, never _entirely_. Hermann can hear the vague murmur of nocturnal life, blooming in comforting coolness of decayed sunlight, stymied by the walls and made almost melodious. In moments like this, he likes the apartment, likes how secluded and small it is, how private. 

Leaning heavily on his cane—mostly due emotional turmoil as he hardly ate any more than he was wont to—Hermann retreats bathroom, leaving the mysteriously lost-in-thought quiet Newton to his devices. After discarding his coat and vest, Hermann pauses to study his—slightly sun-kissed, he notes with surprise—face, the wayward curl of his hair in the humid air, the slight shadow of stubble on his jawline. He _has_ changed, even in his unwillingness to admit it. 

The bathroom window is flung open, letting in a still-warm breeze which keeps the shutters in a perpetual swaying. When he closes his eyes, all sounds seem to disappear, except for the fervent tremor of cicadas.

 _It’s a life,_ Hermann thinks, smiling at the reflection. _It’s enough. It’s enough._

 

* * *

**_I sing the body electric,_ **

 

When he emerges from the bathroom, the shutters of the main window are open.

Newt is leaning against the balustrade with his hands tucked into the pockets of his trousers—shirt untucked and collar unbuttoned—looking vaguely sleepy, somewhat bedraggled. Still lost in thought. For a moment, as he draws closer to the balcony and aligns with him, Hermann allows himself to simply _regard_ him, imperfect and beautiful as strikes him to be. 

‘I’ve got something for you,’ Newt says suddenly, his voice strangely hoarse, breaking their companionable silence.

‘For me?’ Hermann asks, surprised. He thinks back to the digs, to the technical adjustments Newton must have discussed with Beckett. Childishly, he doesn’t want to think about these, doesn’t want reality to intrude upon the rare tranquillity of the evening.

‘Yes.’ Newt is still not looking at him, his gaze unfocused and directedsomewhereoutside. ‘For you.’

When he finally turns his head to look at Hermann, his expression remains unreadable. Without further ceremony, he reaches into the pocket of his trousers and presses something cold and smooth into Hermann’s unsuspecting hand.

Then, biting his lower lip as though in nerves, Newton withdraws. He links his hands together and steps backward.

‘Have a look,’ he mutters, motioning with his head, sounding—if it weren’t _Newton_ and Hermann didn’t know better—almost bashful. Somewhat dizzied, Hermann lets his gaze fall to the object: a small vial of blue-tinted Venetian glass laid in his open hand.

‘What is this?’ Hermann asks. His mind is blank, he cannot think of any possible reason anyone would want it delivered to him through Newton.

‘It’s a— _ah_ ,’ Newton says, and when Hermann raises his widened eyes back to his face, there is no mistaking his expression for anything _but_ nervousness. It’s startling. ‘It’s—silly. Maybe. Or maybe _not_ , I—it’s a _scent_.’

Hermann stills. Blinks. Then he repeats, disbelieving, ‘A _scent?_ ’

‘I had it— _made_ ,’ Newton is looking down now, onto his feet, and worrying his lower lip so insistently Hermann thinks he will _bleed_. ‘I, uh. This—this might sound strange, but I’ve learnt about it from—from _Tendo_ , there is this famous perfumery in—back in Florence. An atelier. Where you could—describe someone, a person you—you hold dear. What he likes, what he reminds you of, and he—the perfumer, he makes the fragrance. For— _you_. It’s for you.’

Hermann is aware that he is staring, he is aware that his mouth is open in a nearly comical way but he finds himself unable to do anything but. He hears the violent humming of his blood so loud in his ears it seems to drown out the cicadas.

‘You—you went to _Florence_ ,’ he repeats at length, too stunned to formulate coherent thoughts and thus reduced to mere repetition.

Newton inhales sharply and pushes himself off the wall, instead leaning heavily on his forearms as he leans out of the window. ‘God _damn_ you, Hermann,’ he mutters, tenaciously, breathing out. ‘Y _es_ , I went to Florence.’

In his utter confusion, all Hermann can do is ask the sole question he still perceives as logical in the context, ‘Why?’

Newton finally raises his eyes, wide and urgent and so dizzyingly nervous, and holds Hermann’s gaze without answering.

‘Come on,’ he speaks at last, voice low. _Blunt_. ‘Try it on.’

Blinking, Hermann looks down onto his hands. 

He unscrews the vial with trembling fingers. He inhales, barely even able to distinguish between his own dazedness of conflicted emotions and the sweet-lined fragrance which—dizzyingly—does strike him as improbably well-suited.

‘It’s … lovely,’ Hermann says, trying to will his hands not to tremble and not drop the vial. _What scent is it?_ He cannot _tell_ , he seemingly cannot think or act beyond silently watching the fragile gift held in his shaky fingers. The unvoiced _affection_ contained in what Newton has done disarms him—the thoughtfulness and personality of the gift, the silent effort directed at _him_ solely. Unspeakably moved, Hermann finds himself unable to proceed.

_What scent is it?_ It seems so needlessly _sweet_.

‘Thank you,’ he manages at last, hoarsely, too overwhelmed to be able to do anything to alleviate the sheer inadequacy of such a response, too overwhelmed to as much as raise his voice above a whisper. ‘I … _thank_ you.’

In his state of absolute disarmament, Newt’s sudden closeness takes him by surprise. He only properly perceives it when Newton’s hands take Hermann’s futile hands in his, tilting the vial so that some transparent liquid trickles onto one of his pale wrists.

‘Let me, uh,’ Newt mutters, seemingly flustered himself, reaching forward. ‘Let me do this for you.’

With the tip of his thumb, Newton smears the perfume on on Hermann’s pulse point and then guides his hand to touch a complimentary spot on the neck, just below the jawline. 

Drawing Hermann’s pliant hand away, he then lingers, breathing rhythmically, and finally—slowly—inclines his head minutely closer. Hermann can _feel_ Newton inhale, a slight touch of warm of air and, yes, _himself_ , as he leans in closer still, his cheek grazing Hermann’s jaw, his lips—almost skin to skin—opening against his pulse-point. Time seems to be dawdle around them; Hermann feels his own heartbeat, elevated and erratic, in every inch of his body.

Dazed, he thinks he can recognise the pulse of it mirrored in Newton. 

‘What are you _doing_ ,’ he whispers.

‘What do you _think_ I’m doing,’ Newton mutters, warm breath on the skin of Hermann’s neck, before he moves forward and kisses Hermann’s pulse point. 

For a moment, Hermann loses all trace of coherent thought, barely registering Newton pushing him slowly back onto the bed, his mouth trailing down the side of his neck as one of his hands fumbles to work Hermann’s stiff collar open. He does nothing in response except close his eyes and sigh, softly—until suddenly Newt emerges once again, knees boxed on two sides of Hermann’s legs, face flushed with a glazed, oddly intent expression. Hermann stares up at him, incoherent.

‘I am trying,’ Newt says breathlessly, licking his lips. ‘I _have been_ trying. To seduce you. Am I—am I succeeding?’

‘Oh,’ Hermann says, and it’s a sudden mixture of sensations and realisation rushing through him in a wave. He blinks, disoriented. ‘I didn’t—I thought you … did you close the vial?’

Newton seems to be fighting off a smile. ‘Yes,’ he says impatiently. ‘Am I succeeding?’

‘Oh,’ Hermann repeats, swallowing. He lets his hand stray and brush aimlessly past Newton’s half-unbuttoned collar, down his chest. ‘I—Yes. Yes.’

‘I thought maybe I could—do it better. Court you better. But I can’t—I couldn’t stand this uncertainty any longer, I _couldn’t_ , so perhaps it must be so: in the open. Hermann, do you still—’

The window rattles slightly, the shutters trembling.

‘Yes,’ Hermann says. ‘I still. _Of course_ I—Newton.’

‘Well,’ Newton murmurs, ‘so do I.’

Feeling his pulse accelerate, blood rush and thin into, Hermann clings, pulling Newton closer, hiding his own face in his shoulder with a helpless, choked exhalation. He recognisesNewton’s hands, warm soft hands, stealing away under the starchy fabric of his shirt, running up the ribs, skin to fever-flushed skin, and hears him hum, vibrating against the shell of his ear, ‘ _Che gelida manina.’_

‘Newton,’ Hermann whispers in warning, something inside him shattering into pieces, too fast and crushing to prevent, too deep-entrenched and aching, ‘ _I—_ ’ 

‘S _e la,’_ Newton murmurs, lips moving against the hollow between Hermann’s jaw and ear, _‘lasci riscaldar.’_

Suddenly overwhelmed, Hermann catches Newton’s wrists and pushes them back, away from himself, while at the same time still—still pressing his burning face into his skin, breathing it in.

‘I’m sorry,’ Hermann stammers, incoherent, half-flinching and half-clinging, almost paralysed with both disbelief and sudden unbearable emotion. ‘I’m sorry, I’m—I’m not—I’m—’

Newton doesn’t answer, instead turning his head slightly so that he nuzzles the newly wet skin of Hermann’s cheekbone. 

For a minute, he doesn’t move, doesn’t make a sound, just—breathes. Steadily, straight into Hermann’s skin, and the tension gradually relents, letting him sag against Newton, who pulls his hands free and then draws them around Hermann, steadying them both. Shakily, Hermann exhales.

‘What’s wrong?’ Newt whispers. ‘We don’t—we do not have to, _Hermann_. Or I can stop singing, I’m sorry, that was—silly, I just wanted to—’

He pauses and then blurts, ‘You’re so cold, you get so _cold_ , I just wanted to warm you up a little.’

‘No,’ Hermann tries. ‘It’s just I—this has never—’

Oh, how to say it? Torn between embarrassment and heart-constricting gratitude, Hermann lets out measured breaths into the collar of Newton’s shirt. What a sight they must make; Newton kneeling on both sides of Hermann’s legs, cradling him close as he cries, what a _spectacle_ —

How to say it?

_I love you_ , Hermann thinks, pitifully, _I’ve loved you for so long._

And yet words fail him, and he never says it, never lets it be known, instead trying to ingrain this interrupted moment and it’s present half-tragic continuity—a hoarse melody, a murmuring voice and touch, Newton’s touch, _Newton_ touching _him_ —somewhere permanent in his memory. This one, _one_ stolen hour of certainty, of belonging, of—

‘Hermann,’ Newt whispers, as though in response to his thoughts, as though somehow—somewhere beyond the trivial constraints of little human connections, he is able to perceive the unsaid. ‘It’s alright. Hermann, _Hermann_. It’s alright.’

Hermann closes his mouth with his mouth, kissing his own name on it, emotion steadying into conviction. Suddenly decisive, he pulls them both down onto the mattress, draws Newton’s hands back to himself, willing his own not to shake.

‘Yes,’ he says, half-coherent, ‘it is.’

 

* * *

**_Of the terrible doubt of appearances,_ **

**_Of the uncertainty after all, that we may be deluded,_ **

 

Hermann wakes alone. 

He finds himself watching the window looming in front of him while still half-asleep, face tucked into the pillow. Air filters in through the open green shutters, trembling along with the see-through wispy curtains. 

Slowly, Hermann’s gaze slinks to the bedside table as he reaches for the fob watch and encounters a folded piece of paper in its place. Oddly inert and unthinking, Hermann raises it over his head and unfolds.

_Come down to breakfast_ , reads the note, in rounded familiar writing. Then, as though in anticipation of the hollow rigid feeling suddenly erupting inside Hermann’s chest, two small words written underneath. 

_Ti amo._

 

* * *

**_When the subtle air, the impalpable, the sense that words and reason hold not, surround us and pervade us,_ **

 

He does come down to the little patio for breakfast, a certain amount of time later, buttoned and proper-looking, rehearsing what he should—or should _not_ —say.

All coherent plans evaporate, however, once Hermann spots Newton sitting haphazardly by the little table, hair ruffled, nose buried in the newspaper, one leg tucked under himself. The spectacles are sliding down his nose as he squints, nose scrunched up funnily. He’s chewing on a fig. 

Out of the blue, Hermann finds himself so utterly full of irrational, overcoming affection that he feels like he cannot _contain_ it. He stops short, fearing he’ll do something as foolish as surge forward and kiss Newton’s scrunched up face until it smoothens. He doesn’t.

Instead, Newton raises his eyes from the newspaper and sees Hermann. He blinks, stilling, expression inscrutable.

‘Ah—good morning,’ Hermann says, quietly, making a vague movement as thought to tip his hat and promptly thinking it ridiculous. He casts his eyes down. 

Newton sets his fruit and newspaper aside carelessly, disentangles his legs from one another and rises to cup Hermann’s face in his hands, bringing him down and kissing him on the mouth.

‘Newton,’ Hermann sputters, scandalised, making no move to free himself.

‘Hush,’ Newt mutters in response, continuing to kiss Hermann as he manoeuvres him clumsily backwards into the opposite chair, ‘nobody’s here. I need to—make up. For all my dawdling.’

‘Would you consider waiting till we are somewhere private?’ Hermann manages to cut in, finding his senses enough to place both hands on Newton’s chest and push him slightly back. Newton inhales impatiently—still smiling—and bows his head as though in greeting.

‘As Signor wishes,’ he says, swivelling in place and plonking back onto his seat. Instead of picking up his newspaper, he reaches for the silver pot. ‘Would Signor care for a cup of coffee?’

Torn between annoyance, embarrassment and vague arousal, Hermann snipes, ‘Signor _would_.’

Newton grins, pouring coffee.

There’s a silence, stretching between them. The morning is still fresh, air lighter and crisper than it tends to be later on, light soft and meek. Hermann watches Newton fill his cup and place an egg in a porcelain cup.

‘Does Signor have any thoughts to share, this fine morning?’ Newton muses, glancing up.

Hermann attempts—genuinely—to assemble and voice the declarations and explanations he’d gathered while dressing, to address what he’d thought inevitable to proceed. And yet again, he finds no voice for it, throat tight as he doesn’t touch the coffee, watching the liquid surface tremble lightly in rhythm to Newton’s movements.

‘I don’t—know how to speak of it,’ he says at last, quietly.

‘You _are_ speaking.’

Hermann closes his eyes. ‘You are mocking me,’ he accuses, though there’s no fervour to it.

‘Ah, but I thought we’d established—I am _not_ ,’ Newton counters, picking up his fig and narrowing his eyes. ‘I would not.’

Silence recommences: disrupted only by the mild wind and a quiet rustling movement of the leaves in the orange tree behind them, the penetrating sun-bright gaze of Newton’s eyes when Hermann is forced to meet them in passing.

‘I am trying to make sense of it,’ Hermann says at length. ‘I did _not_ want to presume, I did not want to cross a line, I did not—Newton, I hardly trust my own hands. Forgive me—if I hurt you, that was the least of my intentions. You must believe me.’ 

He pauses. Inhales. ‘I was just—afraid.’

And isn’t that all there is to it? He looks up and finds Newton watching him with a small sad smile.

‘Has it not occurred to you that _I_ don’t know how to do things properly, either?’ Newt asks softly and Hermann is startled by the pleading note to his voice. He meets his eyes: wide, urgent. ‘That I am—afraid, too? That I’m doing all of it so wrong, that I am somehow making you unhappy? And then _you_ wouldn’t even speak to me, wouldn’t even let me know if I make a mistake.’

Hermann sits momentarily silent, feeling oddly inert and oddly warm. A slight wind, still inherently warm, cards through Newton’s hair and pushes open the un-fastened collar of his shirt. Hermann sees the freckles on his skin, a dusting of burnished spots forming incongruous constellations. He seems so _fixed_ , suddenly, so at home in this spot of the time-space he’s assumed, so absolutely universally justified. 

The sadness comes unbidden, overwhelming and almost sweet in its finality. 

‘I feel like,’ Hermann says finally, gently. ‘ _I_ am your mistake.’

Newton raises his eyes, attentive and disbelieving. 

‘You could have anyone,’ Hermann elaborates, quietly, ‘male or female. And you are—young.’  


Newton shakes his head. ‘So are you. And I want _you_ ,’ he says plainly. ‘I’d known it’s you, that you are, in some sense, _for me_ , long before I knew myself. Can’t you trust me?’

‘I _do_ trust you,’ Hermann responds, casting his eyes down and brushing his thumb by the wrist of his right hand, where he imagines an imprint of the scent from Newton, persisting. _Ti amo,_ read the little note. 

‘And I’ll—be with you, mistake or not, as long as I can,’ he says, looking up. ‘If you’ll have me.’

In response, Newton takes his hand and kisses its knuckles.

‘Bene,’ he says, smiling.

 

**_Then I am charged with untold and untellable wisdom, I am silent, I require nothing further._ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps it's just me but the idea of being unable to say certain things unless in writing _or_ in a different language is ... kisses fingers.
> 
> The whole scent thing was inspired with a tiny devastating fragment of a book I've read lately, _A Little Life_. I'm SO weak for scents  & perfumes and the idea of incorporating it into this universe made me lose my gd mind. 
> 
> If you’re wondering what is it that Newt foolishly tries to sing to Hermann as he smothers him with a deadly dose of affection, it’s [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OkHGUaB1Bs8). Can’t really blame Hermann for crying. 
> 
> If you're wondering what _I_ have been listening to while writing, it was almost exclusively Edith Piaf, which ... doesn't make sense but does.
> 
> Anyway. Please let me know what you think.


End file.
